As the Falcon Hath Her Bells: Taking Flight
by HyacinthMacaw
Summary: Potions, sarcastic familiars, spies, lessons, and redemption. Snape's forced to a new direction fighting Voldemort, and Hermione's discovering a Gryffindor's courage. 7th year, eventual SSHG Book 1 of 2
1. Chapter One

A quick A/N here up front: I got a review on "Falcon" telling me that Neville's mom is named Alice, not Marie as I have it. Yes, I know. But these two stories were written a year before the release of OoTP. Therefore, you'll find some little inconsistencies like Neville's mom, and yes, I have Desdemona Lestrange, not Bellatrix. So long as we all understand this predates OotP and is thus not a failing of laziness in not checking canon, I hope you can let these things slide. Thanks, and on with the show! 

Hermione Granger awoke grumpily on the cold, rainy Valentine's Day of her sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the sound of Lavender Brown squealing from her bed nearby. "Look! Parvati! Hermione!" She was fairly dancing around the room, clutching a bright red envelope. 

_Not a Howler, is it?_ Hermione thought muzzily. _Have you gone so witchy these past years, Granger, that you don't even recognize a bloody valentine?_ Maybe not; she had never gotten one, after all, Muggle or magical. A Prefect, with Head Girl position grasped with ease for the coming fall, top of the class academically, not ever deigning to hear the resentful mutters of "That little cow Granger broke the curve _again_!" She had gotten more than used to it in six years at Hogwarts. 

Lavender opened the bright red envelope, and it immediately began singing in a tinny voice:   


_Look at the future,   
What do you see?   
Fame, fortune, or   
Perhaps you and me? _

Be mine, sweet Lavender,   
Let fate not keep us asunder   
I promise you merely this:   
I shall never love another. 

My undying love always; Your Secret Admirer 

"Faintly creepy, isn't it?" Hermione frowned. "I mean, that last verse makes him sound like he's practically stalking you." _Not to mention the verse was terrible. Byron is rolling in his grave._ It sounded like something those goons Crabbe or Goyle would come up with, losing many brain cells along the way to the mental exertion. 

Lavender dreamily placed the envelope on her bedside table, giving a sigh and swooning dramatically onto her bed. _She's been learning too much about dramatics from that airy-fairy Trelawny._ "He even knew how much I _love_ Divination!" she gushed. "'Look to the future', he said!" Then she realized what Hermione had said, and gave her an annoyed look telling Hermione to bugger off and get off her personal silver-lined cloud. "Hermione, really. I don't think you'd know a jot about romance unless it was on the test syllabus," she sniffed. 

Hermione shut her mouth into a tight, thin line, trying not to make a snappish reply. Her mood was worsened when Parvati's owl Perseus swooped in, dropping a beautiful, perfect long-stemmed red rose on his owner's lap, and lighting gracefully upon her knee. Parvati simply grinned, giving Perseus a fond pat and getting misty-eyed over the flower. 

She got dressed quickly and grabbed her schoolbooks, storming towards the Great Hall for a breakfast she really didn't feel like. She slid into her seat beside Harry and Ron, ready to scream when as usual, owls were dropping valentines into Harry's lap (and her cereal) in a steady stream. She should have gotten used to his celebrity by now as well as hero-worship it garnered him, but she was in a foul mood this morning. Harry, for his part, was turning as pink as the colored, heart-shaped pancakes sitting in the middle of the Gryffindor table. She chewed her food and swallowed, attacking her cereal viciously, eager for classes to start so she could get away from all this lunacy.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Severus Snape sat glumly at the staff table at breakfast, itching to grasp his wand and cast a _Laryngius_ Charm over the entire hall to shut up the chirping of snotty-nosed brats reading sappy, purple-prosed valentines aloud to each other in delight. _Perhaps the Despondus Potion in their pumpkin juice,_ he thought with glee. Two drops and there would be none of this foolishness for him to suffer through. 

Professor Vector grinned and gave him a wink, giggling as Professor Sinistra made some joke or another to her. "Aren't we festive! So are you wearing your boxer shorts with the little red hearts today, Severus?" she teased. "Don't you ever tire of black?" 

He tired of these efforts to draw him out of his silence. None of them understood that sometimes, he _wanted_ to be brooding, silent, not chirping cheerfully! "If I had come to breakfast," he said shortly, eating a waffle and ignoring its heart shape, "in bright red robes, Mellisande, I would have _begged_ you to be merciful and kill me. I would have to be under _Imperio_ or some such foolish--" he clamped his mouth shut, seeing their horrified expressions at his mentioning one of the Unforgivable Curses. 

_Damn it, Severus, _he thought wearily. _"Ex-Death Eater" does not make for a good resume enhancer, nor does it produce good social conversation. _ They may have made light of _Imperio _in Voldemort's (he refused to think of him as Lord Voldemort) ranks, but it was a taboo subject in the forces of the Light. _Here is Light; they are Dark. I have been both, so does that make me a shade of grey?_ he thought archly. _Well: drab, colorless, a shadow. Perfectly fitting._

He stared bleakly out at the happy students. From the first one to ask him for a love potion, he'd deduct a hundred house points, he swore. Students knew better than to annoy him on Valentine's; he was even harsh upon Slytherin upon this date. He heard Dumbledore ask Madame Pomfrey if she had her stocks of Unrequited Love Potion ready to take away the heartbreak of those suffering from that ailment this day. Snape had brewed the stuff himself, of course: a pinkish concoction, smelling sweetly of apple. _Save some from their own hormones that way,_ he thought sourly. Pomfrey had best have stocks of Contraceptus Potion in the ready as well. _One I never needed._

He eyed Dumbledore's décor of the day. Red and pink everywhere: a shudder worked its way down his spine. Red--Gryffindor red: their colors of red and gold were as bold and flashy as Gryffindors themselves; how he preferred the understated dignity of Slytherin silver and green! He shuddered again to think of Voldemort's glowing red eyes, like some daemon from the depths of Hell itself, or a creature of nightmares. Red had never had good association for him: the house color of his tormentors, the lifeblood of his victims as a Death Eater, his former master's cruel gaze, the burning red of the Dark Mark forever staining his forearm and his soul… 

Was it any wonder he preferred black, to match the heart of darkness within him? He knew he was not liked, admired, or spoken of with anything but contempt for "that greasy-haired git." No woman ever had loved him, and none ever could. He truly had no friends: only those who would use him, so it had been back to his own Hogwarts days with his crowd. Avery, Lestrange, Wilkes…Dumbledore perhaps liked him, but even the old, kindly Headmaster had his uses for Snape. He had risked his life as a double agent, chasing redemption he knew he could truly never earn. Locked in a Hell of his own making, and unable to let himself free. 

It was all very far from this stupid holiday that gave the false dream that one could be dear to someone, cherished, loved. He curled his lip in a self-deprecating sneer, tossing back his pumpkin juice and excusing himself. Nobody noticed the man of the shadows slip away from the merriment: they hardly ever did. For if they had, it would only be pity they would have for such a poor emotionally crippled creature, and pity was the last thing on Earth that Severus Snape wanted, or ever thought he deserved.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
One of Hogwarts' Great Horned Owls swooped overhead, dropping a scroll upon the pile of Harry's valentines. It settled on Hermione's shoulder, nibbling her ear, until she gave it a bit of pancake. It then happily flew off, hooting. Ron snatched it up, ready to read it aloud and tease his friend, secretly pleased that he had gotten three this morning. Not on Harry's scale, but respectable indeed. It was with surprise that he noticed Hermione's name written on the scroll. "Mione, for you," he announced, handing it over. She looked shocked. Ron gave Harry a quick gaze asking, _Did you send it?_ It would be like Harry to do that out of kindness and send it anonymously, since they both knew Hermione had never gotten a valentine. Harry looked equally puzzled. 

Hermione slit the seal on the scroll, hands trembling. No, it had to be her letter to the wizarding Lothlorien University with information on applying in the fall. Nobody would send her…but written in a careless, spidery hand, in peacock blue ink, was indeed a valentine, or rather, a love note.   


_Dearest Hermione, _

Shall I admit you have captivated my heart?   
Please, meet me in the Astronomy Tower at noon.   
I'd like to get to know you better. 

Signed, An Admirer From Afar 

Hermione smiled. No flowery prose: nothing turgidly maudlin. This was her sort of fellow. The blue ink, and "from afar"…could it have been from a Ravenclaw perhaps? Well, they, if anyone, would admire her mind. She tucked the letter in her schoolbag, smiling to herself. She'd meet this person, indeed. 

Little did she notice Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy smirking at the Slytherin table as they saw the Head Girl blush and smile, stars in her eyes.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
At noon, Hermione clambered up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower excitedly. She knew that people usually came here for romantic privacy: she blushed at the thought. Would he want that at the first meeting? Part of her was taken aback, part of her thrilled. She opened the trapdoor at the head of the staircase, peeking into the tower. "Hallo?" she called quietly. 

She climbed into the small stone room. There was nobody else there, but she settled herself down excitedly to wait. She had no class until three, so she could wait. Impatiently she began looking at her watch. Her heart started to plummet to her oxfords, as it became half past, and then quarter till. At one, an owl flew in the window, shaking snow off its wings. She recognized Draco Malfoy's eagle owl. The bird dropped a piece of parchment in her hands, gave her a haughty look positively reeking of its master, and swooped off. She unfolded the paper, almost afraid to read. What could Malfoy have to say? It was green ink this time, but the same handwriting, she recognized with a shock.   


_Granger, you stupid cow. _

You didn't think anybody would honestly mean it, did you?   
You'd bore anyone to death, not captivate him. 

Happy Valentine's, ta. 

Stupid. She had been so stupid to believe like a foolish little girl that the prince of her dreams could be out there to sweep her off her feet. All that was there were cruel bastards who enjoyed mocking her or "didn't like her like that". A hot, bitter tear trickled down her cheek, falling onto the moss-green ink and smearing it. Slowly she descended from the tower: numbly. She had Potions. Yes…her academics were the one thing she could always be certain of.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape shuddered as he passed Minerva McGonagall on the way to the dungeons, she teasingly calling, "Don't be in such a hurry, Severus! Are you off to see your ladylove that your feet are on fire, Lover-Boy? We still have next month's Gryffindor/Slytherin match to discuss!" 

He slammed the door behind him, stalking to his desk and turning just in time to see Pansy Parkinson sashaying in, that young lady in red robes that made her look like a scarlet harlot, quite frankly. She gave Malfoy cow-eyes and grinned. "Miss Parkinson, take your seat," he said crisply. "There will be none of this Valentine's Day foolishness in this class." He turned to the chalkboard, listing the day's potion and its ingredients. He heard a stifled cry of outrage as he was writing "Gryffon Tongue", and turned, immediately zeroing in on the offender. "_Mister_ Potter, would you care to share with the class?" he said in the tone of silken malevolence he had perfected over the years. 

He stalked back to Potter's seat and grabbed the note he clutched before he could hide it. "So you have a secret admirer, Miss Granger. Congratulations." He stopped: suddenly recognizing Draco Malfoy's handwriting. God, how many times had he labored through that careless scrawl in equally careless reports? "Oh, so Mister Malfoy had taken a liking to you?" 

"You--" she looked at him, brown eyes full of malice, hating his ugly looks, his bitter nature. "Hateful old bat!" she spat, getting to her feet, and nearly running for the door. 

He grabbed another note she had dropped, before Potter or Weasley could. He read it, trying to keep his composure. "Twenty points from Slytherin, Mister Malfoy," he said sharply. Was this school nurturing a new Sirius Black, who would take the risk of killing someone as part of a _joke_? Malfoy was headed well down that road. 

"Sir!" Draco protested angrily. Harry was equally shocked. He knew Valentine's Day was open season for Snape on any house, but _twenty_ in one go from Slytherin? Snape must really be in a rotten mood this year. 

"I said _none_ of this Valentine's foolishness in my class, and that includes passing love notes to Miss Granger! Shall we make it thirty?" One of the Gryffindors made a crack about Malfoy, and Miss Granger, for which he happily took ten points. The Slytherins looked shocked at the very idea of Malfoy liking Granger. Considering Parkinson was practically surgically attached to Malfoy, it was no wonder they were dubious. Potter's outcry must have been at the very thought. But he spared Miss Granger the humiliation of exposing the prank Malfoy had pulled on her. God knew he knew the sting of it. He had fallen for the same bloody exact thing _his_ sixth year, and been cut to the quick to hear Sirius Black laughing about it later in the corridors. He had hexed Black before he hardly knew what he was doing, furthering his reputation as a nasty bastard not to be crossed. 

It was probably the first time he had ever sympathized with Hermione Granger. He had always seen her as Potter's adoring fan, but he recognized in her, as he thought about it, the same alienation resulting from intellectual brilliance. She was probably crying to Minerva McGonagall about Slytherins, including himself, right now. He sighed and turned back to the lesson. He would apologize (how he ground his teeth at the thought) afterwards. He may have been a nasty, dark-hearted bastard, but there was the faintest twinge at her experiencing the same thing he had. He kept the notes and stalked back to the front of the room, disgusted for going soft.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione huddled beside the suit of armor in one of Hogwarts' many corridors, snuffling into the sleeve of her robe. She wouldn't let them have the satisfaction of seeing how much it had hurt. By tomorrow, she'd be able to cover up the hurt of it. Perhaps even by dinner. 

There came a quiet, tentative voice, echoing through the ancient hallway. "Miss Granger?" 

She made a muffled reply before she realized the owner of that silky voice she had heard ringing with contempt for six years. It was too late now. He was upon her. "Are you all right?" 

"Why Professor Snape, I didn't know you cared," she lashed out. He sighed and crouched down in front of her. 

"I came to offer you my apologies." 

She stared at him, stupefied. She expected points off or detention for insulting him and running from his class, but not this. "An apology?" 

"Yes, Miss Granger. An apology: whereby a party that has caused offense admits to it and pleads that the aggrieved shall see fit to forgive." The same biting wit she was used to; that relieved her a bit. The thought of him being suddenly all cooing and soft would have quite frankly made her flesh crawl. 

"What for?" she asked suspiciously. 

"My response to your…note. I did not see the second one until afterwards." 

"Of course, you didn't do anything about it," she snapped. "Malfoy has you wrapped around his little finger!" 

"How I treat my students is _my_ business," he said coldly. "Now, I'd advise you to not question me, else you'll lose for Gryffindor what Malfoy lost for Slytherin in points. I took twenty points for passing love-notes in class." 

"Damned wretched holiday," she muttered, realizing he hadn't revealed the truth and a surge of gratitude going through her. 

"Quite. Now, listen closely, for I will only say this once, Miss Granger. I will also deny I ever said it. You are worth much, much more than those lace-trimmed fripperies and candy hearts would have you believe." He said it before he hardly realized it. "Now, will you please get up?" 

She looked at him uncertainly, hardly daring to believe what he had just said. "Why did you say that?" She got to her feet, knees water-weak and unsteady. "Why?"_Is my professor coming on to me?_ She stifled the hysteria rising within her at the sheer ridiculous nature of the thought. 

He smiled wryly. "Is it so unbelievable that I can discern a woman of value? Yes, of course it is." She looked at him: dark hair hanging lank to his shoulders, sallow skin, and black eyes. Not handsome, but cleaned up, he'd probably be quite distinguished. Was it possible that there was more to him than the heartless bastard she had always thought? Unconsciously she reached out a hand and touched his, the hand of the only man who had ever said she was of value as a woman. He flinched as if burned, and the eyes changed to that of a hunted animal. "Good evening, Miss Granger," he said quietly, and turned to go, black robes billowing around him as he strode down the corridor. 

"Good night, Professor," she murmured, watching him, smiling a little, playing his words over in her head. _You are worth much, much more than those lace-trimmed fripperies and candy hearts would have you believe…is it so unbelievable that I can discern a woman of value?_ She headed for the Gryffindor dormitory; unable to understand precisely why he had done what he had, but knowing she would work to find out. 


	2. Chapter Two

Severus sat in his dungeon, staring miserably at the obscure Celtic grimoire _Hud Cymreig,_ barely noticing the section on the _Draig Galon_ potion that he had been trying to study--one of the few potions using ingredients from a dragon. Dragon was a very potent ingredient, as the creatures themselves were fraught with magic from head to toe, inside and out. The _Draig Galon_ potion conferred "the stowt hart and hyde of a draygen" poetically, or more plainly, courage and a temporary shielding to most common curses and hexes, and therefore had been very popular during wizard battles. Since it required scales and heartstring from the Welsh Red, cousin to the Common Welsh Green, the species had been hunted almost to extinction during the Anglo-Celt Magician's Wars of the thirteenth century. Due to the rarity of the ingredients and its effects bordering upon the Dark Arts, the potion was of course highly regulated by the Ministry of Magic. 

This was his role now in the war against Voldemort: working always behind the front lines. Ever since the disaster at the Tri-Wizard tournament and Voldemort's return, he had been cooped up in Hogwarts like a broken-winged bird. 

Harry Potter had returned from seeing the Dark Lord rise anew, telling of a Death Eater who had left Voldemort's service forever, and of whom Voldemort had said casually, "He will be killed." Dumbledore had given him a warning look across the Potter boy's bed, both of them frozen to the core to realize the implications of that statement. 

The jig was up. He was exposed. He had tried to go that night disguised as Barty Crouch, Jr., aided by Polyjuice Potion, and he had indeed heard his own death warrant authorized. But he had forgotten how long-winded Voldemort could be at these gatherings. He had felt the first stirrings of himself returning as he had hastily Apparated to the edge of the Forbidden Forest once the Death Eaters were released. Only an hour the potion gave him, and Voldemort would suspect "Crouch" taking nips from a flask at Death Eater meetings. He may have had a soul black as ink, but he was nobody's fool and knew a Polyjuice Potion as well as any other: he hadn't been Head Boy in his day for nothing. Burning with sick frustration, Snape had reported to Dumbledore with a heavy heart that he could not return as a spy: not as himself, nor as Crouch. 

Almost two years. Two years of never venturing beyond the protection of Hogwarts' grounds, since Dumbledore insisted upon his retaining his value because of his Potions knowledge and that he could not be risked. Two years of the Dark Mark burning on his forearm as Voldemort called him, toyed with him, dulled to the barest edge of tolerance by the strongest potions he possessed. Two years of dancing on the brink of madness. Two years of enclosing himself in his dungeons, determined to lend _some_ aid to the cause, feverishly researching, experimenting, smoldering in helpless rage. Uselessness frightened him--all he ever knew was being useful. If he had no use, what purpose did he have? He was not liked at all for himself; so usefulness was the last shred of dignity he had to cling to. 

Truthfully, he wasn't that convinced Voldemort would risk a loyal Death Eater to kill him: he could pass no more Dark secrets to Dumbledore, after all. He was in effect a toothless wolf, and sending a Death Eater to Azkaban for killing him would be foolish. The Dark Lord would have lost a follower to eliminate a very minor threat. Very minor indeed: in two years he had come up with several slightly helpful potions, but not the big breakthrough that was truly needed. But if he were wrong, to sacrifice himself and whatever small assistance he could render would be a betrayal of the second chance Dumbledore had given him. That he could not permit--he had his own sense of honor, and a debt still to work off for the sins of his younger years. 

The Ministry had reluctantly granted him _carte blanche_ to work on any potions he felt helpful without censure, at Dumbledore's urging. They were naturally reluctant to trust a Death Eater whose only salvation had been the old wizard's word. He pondered for a moment. Perhaps a hybrid of the _Draig Galon_ and a simple Strengthening Potion to prolong the duration of the shield would be of use? 

No--it was _Avada Kedavra_ that he would truly need to find prevention for. Any shielding potion he could come up with would repel the curses that Death Eaters used when they had time to toy with their victims before the _coup de grace_. But wizards more powerful than he had tried and failed in eons of wizardry to counteract the Killing Curse. The only known cause for backfire, which he certainly could not work with, was an innocent life willingly given in prevention of another person's death--as Lily Evans Potter had done for her son. 

He turned his thoughts from the lively red-haired young woman he had been schoolmates with, allowing a small slip of grief at her death due to Potter's arrogant refusal to believe Snape's warning that Voldemort was coming for them that very evening. He had tried to discharge his debt to Potter that day so long ago, and Potter had prevented it (damn him!), and took his wife down with him. He saw the same arrogance in Potter's son, unfortunately. 

Forcing himself back to the task at hand, he thought with a sigh, _Any advance is better than none._ He wrote furiously on a scroll, then rolling and sealing it so none but Lyanne Kierwood, in charge of distribution of restricted potions ingredients, could open and read it--it would burn to ashes for anyone else. He pulled on a black leather gauntlet, reached into the closet he had converted to a large mews by various charms and spells, and gently withdrew his messenger bird, Tosca. The white gyrfalcon tightened her talons slightly on Snape's wrist, sensing in excitement that her master wanted something, eager to stretch her wings after yesterday's hunting. 

"Sorry to send you out in this weather," Snape muttered. "But you know how it is--desperate times leave us all without our comforts." He removed the falcon's hood, and held up the scroll for Tosca to see. "Ministry of Magic," he said. "Lyanne Kierwood, do you hear me?" The falcon eyed him with bored black eyes. She had made the flight to Kierwood countless times for her master. She could find the way hooded, practically. She grabbed the scroll in one foot, hopping impatiently, waiting to be freed, and giving a soft squawk of acknowledgment. 

Going to the window, Snape unhooked Tosca's jesses from her anklets, loosing the bird. Like a shot, she was out the window, flying with a gyrfalcon's rapid speed towards the Ministry of Magic to hand over Snape's request for a delivery of generally illegal ingredients for his research. Snape smiled grimly: she had never once been deterred. After all, who would suspect _Severus Snape_ of having a _white_ bird as a messenger? He had chosen Tosca for the innocuousness it afforded her, gyrfalcons also being native to northern Britain and thus hardly being noticed to Muggle and wizard alike. 

His mind turned to Hermione Granger for a moment. She would be all right, he was certain. She was a truly bull-headed Gryffindor. _Couldn't she have had one wizard parent, or even a grandparent?_ Then she might have been in Slytherin: she had the thirst to prove herself as a witch and the ambition to carry her far, so long as she could stop convincing herself she had to not rain on Harry Potter's glory. Then again, not all Slytherins were wizard-born--he knew that. Even the blood might not have been enough. It still rankled that the house of the most promising Potions student currently at Hogwarts was the house of those who had taken delight in tormenting him in his youth. He didn't know if he could ever forgive her that. He shook his head. He had discharged his duty to her, rectified his error made in class. He had no further concern with her. He turned back to his work. 

_Will the dragon ingredients negate the effects of the harpy feather in the Strengthening?_, he wondered. He frowned thoughtfully. Dragon canceled out many effects by its sheer power. He headed back to his bookshelves, pulling out a slim black volume published in the sixteenth century discussing the various effects and counters of the more obscure potions ingredients, settled down into the armchair before the fire and began to study intently: a Potions Master in his element.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione listened in the Gryffindor common room to Lavender giggle, "You told off old Snake but good today." She nodded idly, still confused as to why a man who had never shown the slightest bit of interest in her but to crush her ego underfoot, sneering at her as "Potter's little pet", would suddenly turn and say something as he had. 

"Well, I mean, I'd react that way if Draco said he loved me too and Snape announced it in front of everybody," Ron said gleefully. "Whew, Mione, I'm surprised you weren't screaming in terror." 

She remembered the article Rita Skeeter had written about her as Harry's girlfriend back in fourth year, and how much malicious pleasure he had taken in reading it aloud to the class, with his own commentary. What had changed that he'd suddenly be so sympathetic? He didn't _like_ her, did he? 

The thought of it was faintly appalling. Still, not even Harry had ever said she was worth anything just as herself. He and Ron would have been her friend if she was a boy, girl, or Siamese cat. _The only man who's ever told me I'm worth a damn as a woman I can't stand. Granger, your luck is going down._

She resolved to get to the bottom of things and discover what on Earth Snape's motives were. An action that odd had to be explored. But first, she wanted to bask in the warmth of the humiliation Draco Malfoy was suffering around the school for his "crush" on her. This was Hogwarts, after all: a secret lasted all of an hour before even the paintings knew it. She grinned at that, sipping at a mug of hot apple cider and actually enjoying Valentine's Day for once in her life. 


	3. Chapter Three

The next day, after Arithmancy, Hermione lugged her schoolbag back to Gryffindor Tower, dropping with relief the pile of books and scrolls for Monday's homework. Professor Vector was beginning to involve them in increasingly complex ideas, as by sixth year she knew for certain that her students were serious about the subject and not just taking it because their friends had, their parents insisted, or some other such reason. 

Hermione was pleased at that: she wanted to learn everything she could while here at Hogwarts. There were those, like Malfoy, who wanted to deny her as a witch because of her Muggle blood, so she worked doubly hard and let her marks speak for her as to her magical ability. A pity Ron and Harry didn't understand that: Ron was content to skate by, and Harry, while quite obviously powerful didn't develop his ability half as much as he could have. 

Then again, he _was_ honing his abilities in the more useful areas, like Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was tacitly expected to defeat the Dark Lord again: a heavy burden to have upon your shoulders, when you were a sixteen-year-old boy. She couldn't begrudge him a little slacking off in things like Divination, in that case. _Then again, I'd never blame him for being lazy in Divination_, she thought with a roll of her eyes. 

Quietly she slipped out of the dormitory, and moved past a group of giggling first years on the way to Transfiguration in the hall. "Did you see how she changed into a cat last class?" one asked in awe. "Was that great or what?" 

"Don't get ideas, Frank," a girl replied. "She says it takes you _years_ and a lot of work to do that. Now come on, we'll be late, and it's pencils to worms today--she said it's important for exams!" 

Hermione nodded to herself at that. She wondered how many Animagi there truly were out there: they knew from records that there were seven properly registered and all in this century: McGonagall, a group of three Slytherin Aurors in the '20s, a rabbit-Animagus in the '40's, and another two in the first decade of the century. 

She also knew of at least four _unregistered_ Animagi from Hogwarts in the '70's: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, James Potter, and Rita Skeeter. That certainly indicated to her that the actual number of Animagi existing was much higher than seven individuals. She had spoken of Animagism to Professor McGonagall, wanting to possibly acquire the skill. McGonagall had counseled her to think _why_ she wanted to take such a dangerous risk, and that she had best have good reason. 

It was a consuming task, and a powerful risk. That was why it had taken James Potter and his friends so long to do it: they had needed to gain the necessary power and the thorough research before they would even attempt such a thing. They also had the reason: for their friend, Remus Lupin. She had yet to think of a good, useful reason to become an Animagus. McGonagall assured Hermione that she probably had the power, but there was no point trying something with a very high and painful failure rate for no cause. 

She sighed thoughtfully. Her seventh year was coming up, and she wanted to do _something_ profound, something difficult, something to _really_ convince those who mocked her that she was once and for all truly a witch. McGonagall had offered to have the search for Animagism be a senior project of sorts, which would certainly boost her application to Lothlorien University, so long as Hermione could justify what good it would do. She was still thinking how an animal form could benefit the world at large. Perhaps a research project on Arithmancy _would_ be more beneficial. 

Right now, though, she was headed for the Slytherin dungeons. She knew Professor Snape was in his office hours right now, so she wanted to stop by and see what she could perhaps decipher of his motives in cheering her up last night. It was so out of character that it yet bothered her. The Snape she thought she knew would have been more likely to award Draco points for the deflating of her pride, she thought viciously. 

She stood in front of the iron-banded oak door to the dungeons, sighed, and opened it. She slipped inside and headed for Snape's office. He wasn't in, which was odd. He was supposed to be available to students during this time: she thought how he must grind his teeth at that! 

She finally found him in the laboratory, intent upon a cauldron in front of him, carefully snipping iridescent, shimmering red reptilian scales into small pieces with a strong shears. _Dragon scales!_ her mind immediately told her. They were so tough as to need particular ways of cutting. _ We used Hebridian Black scales last term in the Apparition Potion, but red ones? A Chinese Fireball?_

"What are you making, sir?" she blurted before she could help herself, her natural curiosity overtaking her. "Are those Chinese Fireball scales? That would be an Firebomb Potion, right?" 

"Correct, Miss Granger," Snape said, barely looking up, "if I _were_ using Chinese Fireball scales, which I am not. Fireball scales are a duller red and are more of an arrowhead shape, which you _should_ know. I am also not using mermaid hair, which is a necessary component of the Firebomb Potion." 

"So what is--" 

He continued as though he had never heard her. "You of course know better than to disturb me while I am at my work, a point that I have made since your first year to all you lackwits. Five points from Gryffindor." That was typical Snape: to icily put her in her place and find some excuse to take points from Gryffindor. 

She gave a small sigh. "Yes, sir." 

"You needn't worry about your Potions exam, if that's what you're after," he said with a mocking curl of his lip, indicating a stack of papers at the end of the desk, positively covered with nearly gleeful red marks. "A ninety-eight, Miss Granger. You only missed the use of Grindylow bone powder also being used as a buffer to the acid of the Chimaera venom in the Solventus Potion. Your high mark is still quite secure, unless your precious Potter convinces you of the value of mischief rather than studying. I might add that he received a seventy-two," he said with a smirk. 

"He hasn't swayed me in six years, nor really tried," Hermione replied quite crisply, somehow stung. "I only came to say thank you." 

"Whatever for?" Carefully he dropped the pieces of dragon scale into the concoction, turning it to a vibrant royal purple and stirring it in a clockwise direction eight times before turning to her again. "Your thanks for what?" he repeated calmly. 

"For--what you said last night." He looked momentarily stunned. 

"Please, Miss Granger," he then went on, giving her a harsh look, "do not construe my words as some gesture of affection. I merely felt bad about my misconception of your situation and wished to rectify it. I may be a black-hearted bastard, as you are all fond of saying, but I try to rectify my mistakes." His lips pressed together tightly at that, perhaps at some memory, and she saw him almost unconsciously rub his left forearm. 

She knew he wore Voldemort's Dark Mark there--had known since the end of fourth year when Harry had told her. "Oh?" she countered swiftly. "What about the time that Malfoy gave me those monstrous teeth? You did nothing to punish him that time, nor rectify what you said!" 

"Miss Granger--" he hesitated. "It's none of your business," he said stiffly. "I am sorry. Now, if your thanks are done, will you please leave me to my work?" 

She turned and went to go. She turned back at the door to ask if perhaps they were Welsh Red scales, to see him sitting at his desk, body tense, his head in his hands. Something within her told her not to disturb him, and she left, softly closing the door behind her.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape kept his teeth firmly gritted, waiting until Hermione Granger left earshot, then rolled up his sleeve, seeing the angry red of the Dark Mark slowly burning to black. He was being called, and Voldemort knew, as he had known for the past two years, that Severus Snape would not be amongst those answering the summons. That didn't stop his former master from playing with him, letting the Mark burn as long as possible, then suddenly withdrawing the summons. 

That was Voldemort's way. If Snape was driven insane now, Voldemort couldn't continue to punish him for his betrayal. So long as he took him only to the brink of madness, he could toy with Snape like a cat with a crippled bird for years to come. And too, he must know what sort of mental torture it was to have to stay always in this damn drafty castle, aimless, useless. That was far more effective than twenty bouts of _Crucio._ He would break Snape's spirit; had been trying for the past two years. Cunning was Voldemort's forte…he knew Snape would not mind death. He would have willingly embraced it as a merciful release of the misery that was his life. It was far more effective to keep him alive but strip him of all meaning, all purpose. That was Snape's worst horror: if people had no use for him, he was nothing. He had nobody to keep him merely for himself. 

Grimly, he headed for the Potions cabinet, whimpering softly from the pain, spreading throughout his body now like a malicious cancer. Carefully he withdrew the strongest Salicyclic Potion he possessed, and drank it in one swallow, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. The pain receded to a dull throb; occasionally still shooting sharp jolts of white-hot pain along his nerves. This was the best there was when he was summoned. He had learned to live with the ache for a few hours or days until Voldemort decided it was to his satisfaction to release him until the next bout. 

He turned back to the _Draig Galon_ potion and swore violently. It had turned from the rich purple that indicated a success to a sickly sludge brown after he had blended in the Strengthening element and left it to simmer. _Another failure_, he thought angrily. _Ministry won't be happy about this._ Already there were mutters from the Ministry that if Snape didn't produce something soon, they would stop him from wasting valuable ingredients on folly and rescind his licensure for restricted research. It wasn't because he was producing nothing viable: the Ministry had their own researchers hard at work, and failing as well. It was because he was Snape, and the Ministry had been looking for an excuse to let the ax fall ever since he had confessed to being a Death Eater and Albus Dumbledore saved him from Azkaban. 

Tosca swooped in the window, dropping a scroll by his hand and heading for her perch, claws on a small rodent of some sort that she had caught. He read it wearily. Yes, Cornelius Fudge wanted an update on the potion that had required use of his Ministry's precious stocks of Welsh Red dragon scales, heartstring, and Jabberwocky wing. He sat down to make reply, thinking that there had to be _something_ better he could do against Voldemort than explain himself to bureaucrats. 


	4. Chapter Four

Snape was feverishly at work again two weeks later, attempting to mix the _Draig Galon_ with a combination of the dark Russian wizard Rasputin's Mesmer Potion, and Merlin's Nobilius Potion. The Nobilius Potion stipulated only those with good and pure intent could gain the ability to accomplish a nearly impossible task, such as the boy-king Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. It would cancel out the dangerous dark side effects of the hypnotizing Mesmer, leaving perhaps a potion that could, with good intent, cast an enhanced image of _Draig Galon's_ invulnerability to the Death Eaters and waver their willingness to attack. _Cripple an enemy within his own mind and you have him, far more than if you merely wound him._ Snape grimaced, unconsciously rubbing the Dark Mark as he thought that. That was Voldemort's game. _Two can play at it._

By now, of course, he was dabbling far into forbidden potions in desperation, and the Ministry was effectively ready to cancel his research if he didn't produce something. To have a man dealing with all the powers of Hell itself, stoppered in a bottle, was too big a risk for no gain. He was worried that the Nobilius and the Mesmer might completely cancel each other out, mind manipulation generally being an evil intent, leaving him with no more than a simple _Draig Galon_ that any Potions Master could brew. 

Hermione Granger was suddenly standing there in front of him. "Sir?" 

"Miss Granger, I believe I _told_ you not to disturb me at my work! Fifteen points from--" 

"Professor, Potions started fifteen minutes ago, and we--well, _I_--was wondering if class was canceled, and if you were all right?" She looked at him hopefully, brown eyes guileless. 

"Go back and tell them that class has been canceled," he said shortly. Dealing with the lackwits and teaching them the Merriment Potion was far less important than this potion that might save their hides when they were out in the world and fighting Voldemort. "Well?" he said impatiently, when he saw her still standing in fascination. 

"Yes, sir. But are you all right?" She looked at him, obviously worried. He knew he had lost weight from his already slender frame over the past two weeks, and that his normally cantankerous personality had taken a turn for the even more vicious. Everything had him jumping, and he was even taking points from Slytherin for the most minor infractions. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat: not with the dark cloud of the Ministry ready to chop his only reason for existence unless he justified himself, and soon. And too, Voldemort had kept the Dark Mark burning for all of four days last week. He was a wreck. He knew it. 

The concern hurt. _Child, don't care for me--never. It'll only hurt you._ He thought how she had looked at him after he had found her crying in the alcove, as though he had just handed her the world. That was dangerous. He had to keep her away. 

"I'm quite fine," he said shortly. "Is that all?" With her typical Gryffindor nosiness, she turned to look at his project. _Can't Gryffindors let anything alone?_ he thought. 

"Nobilius and M--_Mesmer_?" she stammered, looking at the ingredients he had laid out on the worktable. "But sir, Mesmer is _highly_ illegal!" 

"Brilliant, Miss Granger," he snapped. "However, in circumstances like these, one does not scruple too much over legality--I tend to doubt that Voldemort would halt at you saying, 'Excuse me, sir, but don't you know that the curse you used to kill that wizard was _illegal_?'" he mimicked. "Go back to your work and leave me to mine!" She left in haste, almost slamming the door behind her. 

He viciously chopped Saguaro cactus for the Mesmer, throwing it in the cauldron with less than his usual caution. Her tone at his use of Mesmer--it was the disapproval he _always_ heard from people. _Oh, back with the Dark Arts, Severus? Tsk, tsk--always knew you couldn't be trusted! Once tainted, never clean._ The folly of his youth had left him forever marked: why was he bothering to chase the chance to redeem himself? He never could; they would never let him. He would always be an outsider: he always had been, set apart for various reasons. 

_Almost twenty years,_ he thought angrily, _almost twenty years with nary a blemish and still it's 'Severus Snape, Death Eater'. What a fool I was._ He didn't know if he was a fool for joining the Death Eaters, a fool for leaving and hoping he could earn forgiveness, or a fool for still hoping he could come clean again after seventeen years of fruitless trying. 

He reached for the jar of powdered basilisk fang for the Mesmer, not even noticing that he instead picked up the powdered lion's claw for Nobilius. His normally meticulous organization had been shot to hell these past weeks as he frantically worked. Two pinches of the powder into the purple potion, and he automatically went to pick up the spoon to stir. 

It was with horror he noticed the potion turning to a vibrant blood red, bubbling violently, rather than the emerald it should have become. Stupidly he grabbed the jar and saw what he had put in, and had only time to think, _Lion's claw when added to Welsh Red scale without the counteraction of the basilisk fang means it's going to--_

The solution swelled abruptly. He finished the thought, _--explode_. It did just that, as he felt the searing pain of the potion on his bare hands and face, felt it eating through his robes and burning the skin underneath. He had just enough time to think, _Well, the Dark Mark doesn't compare to this…_ before he mercifully blacked out.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione went and told the Potions class that they had the day off, amidst cheers and a general rush for the door. She stood in the empty classroom for a moment, thinking about how Snape had looked: like a man on the edge. He was normally snappish and sarcastic, but he'd start at _anything_ now. Every class actually lived in fear of him since Valentine's Day. They weren't sure he wouldn't feed them some sort of poison in class in punishment for an infraction. That was how serious the situation was. 

She had also noticed that he couldn't hide the trembling of his hands while he worked. Had the Ministry authorized him to use Mesmer? They must have. From his comments, he was likely working on potions for the fight against Voldemort. 

Now _that_ would be a _wonderful_ senior project! To actually _contribute_ something to the war, to not let Harry be the only teenager the wizarding world thought could do anything against the Dark Lord! She grinned at the thought. Better than an Arithmancy project, indeed, and with a very good reason. _I'd just have to get Snape to agree with it._

That would be the difficult part. With how he was these days, she wasn't sure he'd be sane come fall, let alone agreeable to let a "nosy Gryffindor" work with him on secret potions. Still, perhaps, if she started small…offering to help prepare ingredients and such? He obviously needed help; that was for certain. _Of what sort?_ she thought in a bit of amusement. He knew she had a genuine interest in Potions, though, and she _certainly_ wasn't doing this to be close to him! 

Well, perhaps she'd go ask if he'd like a little basic help in fetching ingredients, cleaning things, and the like. It was somewhat denigrating that she imply the very idea of that being _all_ she was capable of, but if it got her foot in the door to helping fight Voldemort, a little bruised ego she could handle. 

After all, if she helped Snape create a truly helpful potion, it would certainly prove she was no mere Muggle upstart to anyone who would oppose her. She resolved to talk to Professor McGonagall later that day, after she spoke to Snape, and tell her Head of House her idea for research. She could almost hear that soft Edinburgh burr saying in surprise, "_Potions?_ Well, that _would_ be of use, _if_ you can get Professor Snape to agree. All the luck in the world, Miss Granger…you'll need it." 

Still, Snape and McGonagall had a friendly rivalry, and she could have sworn Snape had actually _teased_ McGonagall a few times when he thought nobody was looking. Although with the match for the Quidditch Cup next week (Gryffindor versus Slytherin, naturally), both wanted that victory. Gryffindor had won the House Cup again last year, and she could tell Snape was tired of losing. McGonagall would likely approve of her desire and way to help the cause, though. 

She headed back for the laboratory, humming softly to herself. _Perhaps a potion to counteract one of the Unforgivables? Is that possible?_

Ten steps from the laboratory door, she literally felt the walls shake with a violent explosion within. She raced the last few steps, flinging the door open, hollering,"_Professor!_" The laboratory was dripping with a bright red, sulfur-smelling potion. She stepped carefully into the room, inadvertently putting her feet right into a puddle of the stuff, hearing it _hiss_ against the sole of her shoes as they began to melt. 

_Oh my God, oh my God,_ was her only thought as she saw the crumpled form in tatters of black robes lying half-under the table. He didn't move, made no sound. Was he unconscious? Was he…dead? 

Turning on her heel, she positively sprinted for the hospital wing, losing her way more than once on a moving staircase, but finally arriving. Catching herself in the doorway, she gasped out from burning lungs, "_Madame Pomfrey!_" The mediwitch looked up at her, and her eyebrows shot up. 

"Miss Granger--are you all right?" Professor Dumbledore was there as well, having the wrist he had sprained yesterday examined for thoroughness of healing. 

She tried to catch her breath, finally managing, "Snape--dungeons--explosion. He's hurt…" 

Madame Pomfrey grabbed her medic's bag and her wand, as well as the tin of Floo powder, and in a blink of an eye had transported down to the dungeon laboratory. Professor Dumbledore was behind her in a twinkling. 

Hermione stood there, feeling lightheaded and nauseous from her efforts. She collapsed into a chair. Three minutes later, Pomfrey and Dumbledore reappeared from the fireplace, each bearing an end of a stretcher, upon which was Professor Snape. She instinctively moved to get up. Pomfrey shook her head grimly and said, "Child, it's not pretty. Leave it to us." 

"Will he live?" she was barely aware of her lips forming the words. 

Dumbledore gave her a look full of sympathy. "Most likely. Not very long has elapsed since it happened." 

"I--when he wakes up, please tell him I hope he gets well soon," she said hesitatingly. After all, it was only courtesy to tell _anyone_ to get well soon, and she felt badly for him. Injured while working to fight Voldemort, in an indirect sort of way. 

"I'll do that," Pomfrey nodded, drawing a curtain around the cot where Snape now lay. Professor Dumbledore reached into his pocket and handed her a small bag of Honeyduke's Chocolate Drops. 

"Have a few--they'll help," he said quietly. "Thank you, Miss Granger." With that, he turned back to where Madame Pomfrey was already hard at work upon Professor Snape. She turned and left, but slowly.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
_Tell him I hope he gets well soon._ He drifted through the pain-filled darkness, barely hearing. Had he been able to, though, he might have smiled and wept for joy at the kind words, given freely. Nobody had ever said as such before… 

"Severus?" It was Madame Pomfrey now that he dimly heard. "I'm going to give you a potion now, so you'll sleep. There's quite a bit I need to repair, and I can do it just fine if you're still…" 

_I know what a Dreamless Sleep Potion does_, he thought testily. _Who's the Potions Master here, anyhow?_ But he willingly lay still while she injected the potion, not wanting to risk him choking in trying to drink it, and gratefully let blissfully painless unconsciousness claim him again. 


	5. Chapter Five

Two days later, Albus Dumbledore eyed the letter on official pale blue Ministry parchment, then lifted his gaze to the three professors standing there before him expectantly. "Minerva, Persephone, Athol," he began wearily, "I know that I place a great burden upon you. We are all tried and spread too thin these days--trying to keep our pupils from the darkness, putting in what efforts we can towards the war. But I must ask you to help me." He indicated the parchment, and Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick looked keen with interest. "This," he said, "is the Ministry's official act to rescind Severus' research--" 

"But that's all he _has_!" Sprout burst out fiercely. "He can't go out there, and now--" 

"I know," Dumbledore said wearily, suddenly feeling every one of his one hundred and forty-three years. He indicated the cot where Snape still slept, heavily drugged, while his wounds were finishing healing. If he fidgeted or moved, it would damage the fragile, healing skin and bone. He would wake up soon, though--he had visited this morning and heard Snape restlessly mumbling delusions, in a language he hadn't spoken since he was a child. "I just wanted to forewarn you. You four are a kinship; a family of sorts--the embodiment of the four houses that are the cornerstones of Hogwarts. So I ask you to help your brother," this was difficult to say, "by keeping an eye on him. When he finds out, he may become…" he voice failed. "Try not to leave him unattended until we know he is--recovered." He didn't refer to physical healing. He knew that the young man, with his purpose taken away, would find no reason to live, and perhaps attempt something drastic. 

All three voiced their agreement, turning eyes towards the still form on the cot behind the hospital curtains and silently departing. That was enough for Dumbledore. He had failed Severus Snape before--he would not do it now. He moved to put the letter in his pocket, intending to speak with Snape later about it, forgetting the hole that the Acid Sweets he had confiscated earlier in the day had eaten through the pocket. The letter dropped to the floor as he left. 

Madame Pomfrey came in just then with the fresh batch of topical Regenerio Potion for Snape. Her sharp eyes noticed the letter on the floor, addressed to him. She picked it up, thinking, _Another thing out of his pockets._ She shrugged, and put it with the rest of the items they had found in the ruins of Snape's robes on the table beside his bed. She pulled back the curtain, noting he was still unconscious. The skin and hair had grown back well, and the underlying bones had knit quite nicely. The eyes, ears, nose, and mouth looked quite well after being carefully reconstructed. A few more days for it to finish and he'd be good as new.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape wearily opened his eyes. Every part of him was tingling with something not quite pain--more like a persistent itch. His senses and knowledge told him it was Regenerio--to heal the damage from the exploded potion. 

He lifted a hand, wincing to feel tender, hypersensitive skin stretched tight as he did so. The skin was pink with the indication of new healing. It would fade in another few days to its natural coloration. Carefully he rolled onto his side, hoping to see someone of whom he could ask the date, the details of what had happened, anything. 

Nobody was there. But sitting on the bedside table were a few things he had been carrying in his robes when it had happened, his pockets being largely guarded from the blast by being below the edge of the table. His wand, a few potion-stained notes for a new research project, some spare Knuts and Sickles, and a few of Tosca's cast-off white feathers that could be substituted in a pinch in the Sanguinus Potion for eagle feathers, which he was short of. He had been supposed to teach that potion to the fourth years the day it happened…how long had it been? And had somebody cared for Tosca? 

He also noticed a letter written on official Ministry parchment that had certainly _not_ been in his robes. Stretching out carefully, he grasped it, and rolled onto his back, noting his name on it and opening it. 

He gave a hoarse cry. _They actually did it…_ "In light of your failure to produce any significant assistance to the Ministry, and your overuse of restricted ingredients to no measurable gain, it has been decreed that your research shall be terminated immediately." 

Useless. Now he _was_ completely useless. They had taken away the only thing giving him any meaning. Almost of its own accord, his hand rose to grasp his wand, clenching it tightly in his fist, ignoring the ripple of pain as the fragile new skin over his knuckles tore under the stress. 

He studied the wand for a moment, staring. It was ebony with dragon heartstring. Almost of their own accord, memories played through his mind as he felt a hot tear rolling down his cheek for the worthlessness of his life. 

_He stood in the shop, gazing in wonder. All day long there had been so many new experiences for him. The old man handed him a wand, and he felt a surge through him as though a bolt of lightning had just hit him. He felt powerful for once in his life. "That's the one, young man," Ollivander said happily. "Ebony and dragon heartstring…unusual. Dragons, you know, embody the best of good and bad. Why, look at our own island! The Welsh have them as their symbol and see them as pure and good, while the English," he shrugged, "have slayers of the evil dragons and all that. They are powerful creatures--make powerful wands. I find those with dragon heartstring wands either create strong magic of the purest good or purest evil." Power… _

"I know what you are," Lucius Malfoy hissed in his ear. "Don't think I don't see right through you. Be careful, Mudblood, because Slytherin doesn't take kindly to your sort." Fear rising within him, everything he had built about to crash down, as he turned, pulled out his wand, and hexed Lucius. Lucius merely laughed, knowing that Snape had just proved his suspicions right… 

The power running through him as he heard the Auror begin babbling all his secrets rather than be subjected to Cruciatus again, as he raised his wand warningly. He was one of the best: Voldemort said so. He killed the enemy, sometimes tortured for valuable information, but this was war. He wasn't a pervert who raped, or killed innocents… 

Handing his wand to Albus Dumbledore that night, standing there in his Death Eater robes after having confessed all. Not meeting the old wizard's eyes, not wanting to see the disgust and betrayal in them. He expected him to break the wand to signal his exile from the wizarding world, a symbol of his disgrace, and to call the Aurors to take him to Azkaban. Instead, the wand was handed back to his numb fingers. He looked up, stunned. "I think there is better use for this, and for you, Severus..." 

All that and more he remembered, thinking with a dry, heaving shudder that he had chosen the dark side of his wand's power, and it had come to nothing. Well, one last act, and there would be no more. He'd slip away quietly, with no fuss, and no ceremony. Nobody would really even notice. They could say he had died of his injuries, of his own foolishness in the laboratory. How the students would laugh at that--menacing Professor Severus Snape felled by his own hand. 

He turned the wand around in his hand, raising his arm trembling from weakness. His stiff lips shaped the words, his raw, barely-healed vocal chords managed to rasp the first syllable. "_Av--_" 

"_Expelliarmus!_" came a cry from one, no, two throats across the room. His wand flew from his grasp to Hermione Granger's hand. 

Minerva gave him one of the stern, disapproving looks he remembered from his own school days, while Hermione looked on in horror. _Haven't you seen a man with no will to live before?_ he thought sarcastically. 

"Miss Granger has informed me," Minerva said pleasantly, taking his wand from Miss Granger's grasp and tucking it into her own robes as though nothing untoward had just occurred, "that she would like to do a research project with you in the fall on Potions." 

He laughed bitterly, not caring how it hurt. "Minerva," he choked painfully, "I've lost my research." 

Minerva leaned down close, giving another of those fierce terrier-of-a-Scotswoman glowers. "You can still teach, Severus," she murmured. "That's something, isn't it? Give it time and they'll reinstate you…" 

_Teach a bunch of brats who have no interest or inclination towards my subject?_ were the words coming to his tongue. He looked past Minerva's set countenance to see Miss Granger standing hopefully in the doorway. She certainly did seem interested. 

"I'll consider it," he said. 

Minerva stepped tactfully in. "Miss Granger, perhaps it's not the best time to ask. Give him time to make a decision and recover…perhaps you should ask again in April?" Miss Granger nodded, and taking the hint, quietly slipped away. 

He found himself under Minerva's gaze again. It reminded him of the Transfiguration class his first year when he had come in late and found a cat sitting on his desk, with the same unwavering, unnerving stare. _First I had ever heard of Animagi_, he thought reminiscently. It seemed ages ago. _I was too busy learning the Dark curses from the older boys to recall much. Now stop being maudlin already._

The thought took root and blossomed in his mind. It was risky, of course, but if it succeeded, he would have purpose again. He would be worthy of the trust Dumbledore had placed in him. Unaccountably he smiled, grateful that Minerva had given him an idea. "Oh, yes. Miss Granger's project? I think I just might do that." He did owe her for helping save him, after all. 

"I think it'd be good for you," Minerva said. "She wants to learn. Perhaps she can help you find something. She's quite brilliant you know, and I don't say that only because she's a Gryffindor! Brilliant as you were, I recall." 

She looked relieved that suddenly he seemed to give up the idea of self-destruction, though she seemed to look at him a bit oddly, obviously not knowing why. She couldn't know how much she had inadvertently just helped him. "Well, you think on it. Poppy says you can leave tomorrow, though she wants you to take another week before resuming classes." She looked at him, adding, "It's been three days, by the way." 

"Tomorrow?" Excellent: once he was free, and with a week to himself, apparently, he had quite a bit of research to do. After all, he had to be right in this task. Failure, as he had learned rather painfully, was not an option. 


	6. Chapter Six

The day of the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match, Hermione ducked into the library to pick up a book for Charms that Professor Flitwick had recommended for her. The match started in fifteen minutes, but the library would be closed after the match, so she hoped she could get the book in time and get back to the dormitory to bundle up against the raw early March chill. 

Madame Pince had just handed her the book when she heard Professor McGonagall said half-jokingly, "Severus, are you coming to see your young ruffians flattened or not? It begins in ten minutes!" 

Snape gave her an almost sheepish look, closed the book he had been intent upon, and picked up a sheaf of notes he had taken. He handed the book back to Madame Pince, and said with a bit of a smirk, "Don't be so sure, Minerva. This is Slytherin's year." 

"Perhaps we should make you librarian after Madame Pince retires; goodness knows you've _lived_ here the past week!" 

"Research," Snape said shortly, stuffing his notes into his pocket. "If I have nothing to do until I return to teaching Monday, I might as well try to do something useful." 

Hermione turned to leave, but not before she heard Professor McGonagall say quietly, "It's good to see you back on your feet." 

She took a look at Professor Snape. His newly grown hair didn't look greasy at all, and his mended teeth were actually fairly white and straight. His crooked nose was straight. Madame Pomfrey had worked her magic quite well to reconstruct the utter ruin of his face. He was actually halfway attractive, if he kept it up. _Don't even think like that. That's disgusting!_ She shuddered, half at the idea, and half at the memory of him pointing his own wand at himself, ready to utter the Killing Curse. What had changed so utterly in a week that he now seemed driven by a quiet determination? 

Well, it was none of her business, but if his mood were improving, perhaps he would be amenable to a Potions research project after all. She made it to the dormitory, winding her Gryffindor scarf around her neck and hurrying towards the Quidditch pitch.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape found his place in the stands, thinking with a wince that his newly-healed skin was thin still indeed, and that he was feeling the cold quite acutely. He pulled out his wand, and muttered a quiet Warming Charm, immediately relaxing. 

His research had indeed been productive. It would take a good deal more work, but all things pointed to success thus far. He smiled a little to himself, as the players flew onto the field. 

Malfoy had taken ill today; Snape thought it was rather Draco's version of a tantrum and a refusal to be beaten by Harry Potter yet again. The reserve Seeker, Meridia Aquila, was playing today. She was in all honesty better than Malfoy, but politics had gotten Malfoy on the house team, and politics kept him there. Slytherin had never been a democracy, and never would be. 

He gave a faint curl of his lip at the cheers for Harry Potter. The boy had talent at Quidditch, as had his father. But he also had James' arrogance, his disregard for study and rules. _Why should a sheer accident of little talent with a broomstick make any man above the law?_ Indeed, he saw almost nothing of Lily in him except for those green eyes. Why on Earth should one boy be lionized by the wizarding world for the stupid luck to have survived Voldemort's attack through no action of his own, but through his own mother's sacrifice? He was a boy, just an ordinary boy. 

He settled into his seat, ready as usual for the spectacle of three-quarters of the school cheering Gryffindor. One would think after years of being soundly beat by Potter they'd be queuing up to finally beat _him_ at Quidditch. 

The score wavered back and forth, with first Gryffindor, and then Slytherin pulling ahead. Aquila scanned the sky, green robes billowing in the stiff breeze. Potter was right on her tail, both frantically searching for the flash of gold in the sky. 

He began pondering his studies of the past week again, analyzing what he still had to find out before the idea could be reality. One slip, one hasty omission, could be deadly. He was nothing if not a meticulous, thorough man, and even the part of him that compelled him to finish the task as soon as possible to rejoin the fight recognized the need for it to be done well. 

There was a sudden roar around him, he wincing as it resounded through his still-sensitive ears. "Sir!" Blaise Zabini shouted, an enormous grin on his face. "We've won!" The Slytherin stands had erupted into a flurry of cheers, back slaps, and general elation. 

And indeed it was Meridia Aquila holding her fist up in triumph, the Snitch firmly grasped within. Potter looked positively aghast at the idea of a team's _reserve_ Seeker beating him when their main Seeker was a bumbling idiot. This was their first victory over Gryffindor in six years. Perhaps he should find some excuse to throw Malfoy off the team: Heaven knew there were enough of them that he could pick and choose. He no longer had to court Lucius Malfoy's favor, after all. He then allowed himself a smile. Minerva now owed him twenty Galleons.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The Gryffindors were filing somewhat dejectedly back towards the Great Hall for dinner. Hermione saw Professor Snape at the back of the crowd exiting and slowed her step. She studied him, noting in amusement that even his scarf was black. _You'd think a little color wouldn't kill him._ "Are you feeling--all right now, sir?" she asked tentatively. She hadn't spoken to him since that day in the hospital wing. 

He gave her a brusque, impatient glance. "Miss Granger, you needn't have any worry that I shall pull out my wand and turn it on myself. A bit of momentary foolishness: I was not in my right mind. Isn't there an injured rabbit nearby that perhaps needs your tender Gryffindor ministrations?" he asked cuttingly. 

She refused to be daunted. She had seen him broken and bleeding, and he wasn't fooling her with his act. "The rabbit couldn't need half as much help as you." 

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek," came the flat reply. "Considering that Slytherin has just won the match and the Quidditch Cup, I caution you not to lose too many points if your precious Potter wants the House Cup again this year. Though Heaven knows," he added almost bitterly, "it will find its way to him in any case. It always does." 

"That's not fair--" she protested vehemently. They had _earned_ that Cup every year, and worked hard for it. She wasn't about to let him insinuate Gryffindors were favored and catered to. 

"Oh, really? What about getting _just_ enough points at the last moment your first year to award it to Gryffindor?" he said in obvious disbelief. "I fail to see why everybody worships the ground he walks on. He is an arrogant, lazy little brat, whom everybody adores without him earning one whit of it." 

"Maybe if you got to know him, you'd find he was a decent person," she said through gritted teeth. Harry made her want to smack him sometimes, but Snape had no call to insult him. After all, he was her friend, and Snape was overstepping his bounds. "Do you know every summer his relatives take away his magical things, lock him in his room, treat him like a prisoner? He deserves some kindness!" she snapped. 

"There are others," he said blandly, "who are equally deserving of pity at this school, and I do not see anyone falling over themselves to accommodate them. If you have nothing better to say, Miss Granger, I bid you good day. I thank you for your assistance in my mishap, however, and if you still wish to do a research project this fall, I accept." With that, he turned and stalked off. 

"Others deserving pity--does that include you?" she shouted after him, seeing his shoulders stiffen at the words. He didn't turn, though, and she headed to the dormitory, feeling an odd sense of both having lost and won something in the exchange.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape sat at the desk in his quarters, staring at Tosca who was noisily eating a mouse she had caught earlier in the day. He'd have to send her with a message to an old friend in regards to his new project. 

His plan was perfect, though. Voldemort would never suspect a thing from aimless Severus Snape. That was the Dark Lord's weakness: he underestimated the enemy with regularity, so consumed by his own power that everybody else was dismissed as a weakling. That was why Lily Potter had defeated him. 

He shook his head, regretting his words to Hermione Granger. It was a weakness he never should have exposed. But looking at even Potter's own year, the "poor orphan lad" wasn't the only one who had brutally lost his parents. Brian MacKenzie in Hufflepuff was an orphan courtesy of the Dark Lord, as was Titania Viridians of Slytherin. Those and countless others--and even that hopeless prat Longbottom in Potter's own house. The Aurors had botched the Memory Charms of the night his parents had been tortured quite badly. Rather than removing his fear, he was instead nearly a Squib and afraid of his own shadow. 

He kept hoping that his constant attentions on Longbottom would toughen the boy up--he wouldn't last one minute against the Death Eaters as was, and every teacher knew that an unspoken part of their duty right now was to be preparing these students--these _children_--for war. They would need every fighter possible against the dark forces. But even the other professors were growing frustrated with Neville. Frank and Marie Longbottom had been incredibly skilled, and he wondered idly if their son would have acquired the same power if not for the Aurors' mistake. 

_Sending children to do the job,_ he thought bitterly. _This is what we have come to._ Sighing, he turned back to the thick, dusty tome upon his desk, quill at the ready to record anything of interest. He was better served by work, not by sitting around sulking. At least he had a few more days to get as much as possible done before returning to the nitwits in the classroom. _It's March now,_ he thought. _I should be ready come summer._ Ready to resume his place in the fray. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Before Hermione knew it, the Leaving Feast had arrived. She had achieved top marks again, of course, and Professor McGonagall had informed her with pleasure last week that she was to be Head Girl for next year. Trevor Livingstone of Hufflepuff was Head Boy. 

Another summer at home, enjoying all the quirks of the Muggle world again. She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized that with each passing year, she and the world she had known grew further and further apart. Her parents were happy for her, and glad that she was excelling, but she could see in their faces sometimes the sadness at her membership in a world they could never understand or be a part of. But she couldn't be their little girl forever--she had to find her own way, her own place. And if it was as a witch, so be it. 

She studied the staff table as Dumbledore began making his end-of-the-year speech, hearing her name and Trevor's announced. Professor Sprout looked pleased to have a Hufflepuff as Head Boy; since they had lost Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff had been a bit aimless. Livingstone could hopefully rally them again. 

Snape was listening intently, she noticed. She thought back on the few months since his accident. He had returned to teaching, of course, and it was a bit of a relief to see that he was still his usual sarcastic, acerbic self. Had he become warm and fluffy, that would have had all of them uncomfortable beyond belief, and besides; that was a little too much to believe of Severus Snape. The only use he had for warmth was probably to heat the cauldrons for potions. 

But there had been something different--he seemed too distracted for his harshness to have quite its usual sting. He even ignored some infractions entirely, and she had looked up at him more than once during class to find him with a faraway look in his eyes or scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. "Think ol' Snapers is in love?" Ron had mumbled after one of those days. "Although that's a little _too_ disgusting!" 

It was probably the same thing that had Madame Pince muttering still about him in the library at all hours, reading up on everything from historical Animagi to the uses of zebra hair in potions. Still, if he had a pet project, more power to him, and his distracted self was _certainly_ better than the bloody bastard he had been only weeks before his accident. 

It seemed he had found purpose again; probably something to fight Voldemort. After all, Professor McGonagall had confirmed her suspicions that his use of illicit potions had been for research on behalf of the Ministry. That was probably to replace his use as a spy. With Potions research no longer an option, he had obviously turned to something new, though God knew what. He was brilliant, if more than a little of a nasty git, so he'd probably found something. She had to admire his determination, if nothing else. And his involvement against Voldemort made him the _perfect_ man to work with to contribute her own efforts to the cause. 

So she would spend her summer reading and planning ideas of what to work on for the Potions project with him. Five days ago, he had met with her again, told her abruptly that she had best not expect him to do the thinking _for_ her and that she should come prepared to work. "I do not want you wasting time: yours or mine," he had said crisply. "I have better things to do than dodder around while you fumble for some half-witted, quick idea that will fail. I expect you to come this fall ready with your project well thought and written out, and you will work on it, pending my approval of your plan, of course. I will not do this for you just so your application to Lothlorien is prettified." 

She actually appreciated that. It meant he was taking her intent to research seriously and not hoping that she'd forget over the summer. He wasn't going to coddle her: the real world wouldn't if she wanted to be a researcher either. There was also the hint that he thought her actually _capable_ of his high standards, if he had accepted and was now giving her his expectations and being unwilling to accept less. It would be an interesting experience; that she was certain of.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snape and Minerva McGonagall exchanged looks of exasperation at tiny Athol Flitwick grinning smugly at the other end of the table as Dumbledore awarded the House Cup to Ravenclaw. Gryffindor and Slytherin had been so close in the last month that of course rivalry had flared up, leading to points being detracted from both for various scuffles and hijinks, while of course Ravenclaw quietly excelled in academics as usual, winning themselves just enough points to take the lead. 

_Should have taken ten points from Padma Patil the other day,_ Snape thought with a grimace. _Too busy thinking, though. Blast--get involved with something, ease up a little, and they run roughshod all over you._ Still, he had the very acute satisfaction of his house having defeated Gryffindor in the Quidditch Cup. The years where those two houses went head-to-head for the Cup were always the fiercest and most anticipated games. And Minerva couldn't complain too much, as her house had the distinction of having the Head Girl for next year. 

He was quite relieved, of course, that Dumbledore hadn't made Harry Potter the Head Boy. He liked and respected the old man, but his trying to make things go over gentle for Potter by giving him advantages and such got irksome. But Livingstone was a good choice, he thought with approval. 

As the students filed out of the Great Hall for their dormitories, Flitwick sidled up to Snape, Sprout, and McGonagall. "Looks as though the pool is mine this year!" he beamed. 

Snape shrugged philosophically and handed over the twenty Galleons he had put on Slytherin. It was only a friendly, annual bet, after all. There was always next year, and with Aquila as Seeker for Slytherin, they could indeed win off of Quidditch points. Malfoy had quit the team in a fit of temper when he heard the celebration of Aquila's win, snapping that they could bloody well _keep_ her in that case. Snape couldn't say he was too sorry for it. Lucius Malfoy, for all his faults, had been a much better Seeker than his son; Draco had little aptitude or inclination for it. That hobble taken off, Slytherin's chances of winning next year were quite good indeed. 

Minerva sourly handed over fifty Galleons. She had made a large bet, counting on Gryffindor to win as they had since Potter's arrival, but for the year of the Tri-Wizard Cup, when there had been no House Cup. Sprout gave over her small bet of ten Galleons, and Flitwick gave them a large grin. It was amusing to see the little man so cheered, indeed. 

He then rose and headed for his dungeons, relieved to have the students gone for the summer. As he could not leave Hogwarts over the summer due to the price on his head, he had all the time and resources needed to complete the task. After three months of hard study, he would be ready in two weeks, once the potion was finished. Being a Potions Master, of course he had chosen the route utilizing his subject. 

He carefully peered at the potion simmering gently in the cauldron, delicate peacock-blue fumes wafting up from it. He gave the thing its daily addition of zebra hairs and phoenix ash and stirred. It was a good thing he was a Potions Master, because those ingredients in the quantity needed to be added daily for one lunar cycle would be nearly impossible to get by the general magical public. Hogwarts had probably the best stock of legal (and some restricted) Potions ingredients in the wizarding world--he had seen to that. Boomslang skin, horn of a bicorn--a few of the same basic ingredients as the Polyjuice Potion, but this was more concentrated and directed differently. 

He had made certain his Transfiguration skills were still good and sharp, as that was the largest portion of the magic involved. Transfiguring a pincushion to a hedgehog allowed for a few errors, but Transfiguring one's own self didn't allow for even the slightest lapse in concentration or the flow of magic. 

That was probably why those three bloody Gryffindors had taken so long about this: they were smart enough to know, hopefully, that this could get them killed if they hadn't prepared correctly and didn't have the skills. They probably hadn't used the potion, as they could hardly buy or steal enough of the ingredients needed. They had likely gone the slightly easier route with the Amorphous Charm. Snape figured it was best to play to his forte, even if the potion took longer--he was making sure of his readiness while he brewed it as well. The skills he certainly had. He just wanted to leave no detail unconsidered and left to chance, an unforgiving mistress if ever there was one. 

He went into his office and withdrew a sheaf of notes from his bottom desk drawer. Sitting down, he began reading again, taking in every small detail. Two weeks--it was two weeks to the full moon. The transforming power of a full moon was well known to the world of magic. That would be the night that would prove to be either his salvation or his ruination. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Snape peered out the window he had created in his living quarters, having used magic to make the view that of above ground, rather than the subterranean view one would actually have seen from the dungeons. The pale, large June full moon had finally risen. He had spent much of the evening impatiently pacing the room and periodically checking out the window for it to be darkness. 

He turned from the window. He strode over to the table, where he had placed the potion this afternoon after checking its color. Salazar Slytherin himself, who had first used this potion in the transformation, cautioned that it had to be the silvery coloration of the moon; else something had gone wrong in the brewing. _Silver--should expect that from Salazar._

After all, if Godric Gryffindor had done the thing and written the tale, he'd have probably found _some_ way to make it a bright sun-gold in his own vanity. Never mind that the light of the moon was far more magically powerful than that of the sun--Salazar knew that and had chosen the color of moonbeams as one for his house to carry. Godric probably had then chosen gold just to be perverse--the rivalry was intense even back to the two founders of Slytherin and Gryffindor. 

It was yet soft, glowing silver, he was relieved to note. Picking up the goblet, he put in the final ingredient--a bit of chameleon skin. The potion bubbled briefly, then settled. Carefully, he sat down cross-legged on the rug on the floor. Safest this way the first time--didn't have to keep his mind on his balance during the process. After all, he needed to clear his mind of everything else but the process itself. 

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror he had set up to be able to immediately gauge once he was done the success or failure. Pomfrey had done a good job, he noted again, considering that she had needed to repair most of his face and hands--skin, muscle, nerves, and the surfaces of the underlying bone. 

Quite honestly, he had been so busy preparing for this since his accident that he had forgotten to make himself physically repellent. It didn't matter anyhow--his mission of keeping people at arms' length was _quite_ well accomplished by sheer force of personality alone now. His reputation was well established as nasty, cold-hearted, and in general disagreeable. And he wasn't handsome to begin, anyhow, so it wasn't as though anyone would take notice. He shrugged. He was less concerned with this form than the one he would hopefully adopt anyhow. 

"Cheers," he muttered dryly, "to all who have gone before." Raising the goblet, he drank down the potion in one swallow, feeling the coldness of it sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach. Almost immediately he began feeling a little light-headed. The potion lent certain malleability to one's very cells, as a "jump-start" (as a Muggle might have it), to the transformation. In this dangerous first attempt, a magical boost of a sort was used to lend ease to the change. After all, one had no idea to where they were headed, and direction and will were needed to overcome the body's determination to stay as was. The potion, or various other magical aids that had been used by others, softened that resolve. Subsequent times, of course, he'd have the form and the memory of the feeling, so it could be accomplished easily. 

He settled his hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind of everything, letting go his conscious self. His heart rate slowed, and then stopped. The blood sat still in his veins; his muscles froze. His chest paused in the middle of an exhalation. It was in effect a living death, so that he could be safely reshaped without natural movement counteracting it. 

He was aware of nothing but the furor within him as cells rearranged, grafted themselves to new places. _You can't direct it; your own spirit guides the form_, he had read. About all one could do was concentrate carefully on nudging their very cells towards where instinct told them to. It was hard to keep the concentration as he felt the itching prickle of his body slowly reshaping itself: new structures growing, old ones receding, all at once in a second and an eternity. He felt faintly queasy. 

But if his thread of magic broke, if he lost his will, the transformation would be left unfinished. At best, he would be an eternal freak, stuck forever as half-man, half-beast. Considering many thought he was already that, he had decided that he was in no mood to prove them right. At worst, if he lost himself in the middle of shaping something vital, such as the heart, or blood vessels, the fragile thing would be destroyed in a blink of an eye as his functions returned, and he would be killed before he could even think to counter it. The weighty books and tomes he had studied had not been pretty about that; there had been hideous descriptions and pictures of dire failure. This was no skill attempted for teenager's fun and on a lark. 

Finally, after what seemed hours, he knew deep within somehow that it was finished. He had done it! He carefully held the elation as all of his life functions resumed again, one by one. When finally his muscles unlocked and it was complete, he took a deep breath, and came out of the trance. He dared to open his eyes, not sure of what he might see. Had there been some mistake, would he be something totally useless? That had been the danger--there was no assurance that his form would be useful after so much work. 

He had felt the vague sense of shrinking, he recalled. The piercing black eyes that looked at him out of his reflection were yet his own. The aquiline nose had changed to a hooked beak. Black hair had turned to black feathers, covering his new, sleek winged body. 

He gave a small laugh of pleasure, hearing it come out as a faint squeak from a body not adapted for such a noise. _Tosca will be pleased,_ he thought in amusement. He had turned into a black gyrfalcon. _And here I was expecting a serpent._

Stepping unsteadily across the rug, tripping clumsily on feet not made for ground travel, he found his pocket watch. It had taken an hour, he realized in shock: an hour of nothing less than total focus. No wonder the failure rate was so high! 

He was satisfied; there was no use rushing and overdoing himself in one night. He closed his eyes once more and envisioned his human form, slipping into his trance again, suspending animation. This transition was much easier, because he had a self he knew very well in mind. He felt the feathers recede, his body stretch and grow, and five minutes later, he lay on the rug, panting from the effort, limbs trembling with weakness. 

It would take practice, and in time, he would be able to switch from one form to another rapidly. He had seen Minerva go from woman to cat in a blink of an eye. It would also take practice on controlling his emotions initially while in his falcon state. Strong emotion was sometimes enough to cause a reversion to the human form, often at the worst possible time. That risk would be somewhat reduced as he became comfortable with his new body, and it became a part of him. Still, there was much training to do before he would be ready to begin his mission. 

For he intended to do nothing less than take up his former occupation. He would be Severus Snape, Animagus and spy. _Dumbledore will be pleased when I bring him some information._ He intended to reveal this to nobody but Dumbledore, after all. Nobody had known what he was doing--he had gotten an eclectic variety of books from Madame Pince, most totally unrelated so that no one had any idea what he was getting at for his project. He certainly had not gone to Minerva for help; she would have told him he was useful enough as is. _A man of usefulness again,_ he thought with a tired smile as he trudged to bed, completely drained of energy. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Snape was finishing working times for Hermione Granger's project into his schedule--she had better make his time worthwhile. Not like the bulk of lazy, aimless Gryffindors who were happy to fill their valuable time with wasteful pranks and the like: he silently gave thanks that the infamous Weasley twins were now out of Hogwarts and that the place was the calmer for it. Their younger brother, Ron, was a timid, whinging little mouse compared to Fred and George. Thinking of a mouse, he grimaced to remember Peter Pettigrew from his own school days. Indeed, Weasley was the Pettigrew of Potter's little enclave. Granger was probably Remus Lupin--quiet, serious, and studious. Thankfully there seemed to be no counterpart for Sirius Black; that he gave a silent thanks to Heaven for. The world could only hold one ego that large with a brain that small. 

He turned his mind back to the task at hand, hearing Tosca grumbling from her perch. The part of him that was falcon, ever since that first night he had shown her what he was capable of, could now understand what she was saying. _Carry letters for you,_ she said in a miffed tone, _go flying through storms, listen to your rants, teach you to fly…I tell you, Severus, I had better get something good from this. I want some decent food to start. You've been forgetting me because of your project--and that hedgehog I caught last night was almost impossible to eat._

He laughed slightly and handed her a piece of meat, which she eagerly began ripping at. He had known she was a bird of strong opinions, but now that he understood her speech, she was proving to be quite the wit. She had already coerced him into leaving the hood off, and removing her anklets, telling him flat-out that she had no plan of escaping. 

He then gritted his teeth as suddenly the Dark Mark flared to life, smoldering in his flesh. _So soon?_ he thought. _Am I ready?_

"Tosca, dear," he said, putting a smooth, purring tone into his voice despite the pain, "would you say I've learned fairly well this past week?" He'd have to turn on the charm to get her to agree with this. 

_Not hopeless,_ came the agreement. _For a human_, she added disdainfully. He gave her that, remembering ruefully how she had saved his neck when he had fallen from the Astronomy Tower, figuring out the hard way that he didn't know how to fly. The Animagus transformation apparently did not come complete with animal instincts. As though he was a helpless, newly feathered chick, she had taught him to fly, to hunt, and in general to be able to pass for a falcon like any other. _I could almost be fond of you_, she went on teasingly, _if you didn't insist on spending your time in that ugly human form. Come on, Sev, fly away into the sunset with me!_

"Imagine what the children would look like," he muttered, raising an eyebrow. "No, Tosca, I need to go out flying tonight, and," he was almost wheedling, "I need your help." _This is what I get--before, I told her to do something and she did it. And now I'm pleading with a bird, for Heaven's sake!_

She lazily stretched her wings. _And what is it? Your Mark is acting up again? Well, you're quite prepared to go spy._

"I need you to come with me," he replied. "They might possibly suspect one falcon sitting there nearby, but if they see two of us, they'll probably think nothing of it. You know the sort--act like we're hunting and the like and they'll have no interest in us." They'd assume them to be mates, possibly on the lookout for a nest site. After all, the presence of a pair of gyrfalcon Animagi would be indeed very odd, and an Animagus would probably not be wasting time hunting if he or she were on a mission. He grimaced. "And besides, if I get caught, I'd need you to come back and get word to Dumbledore." Not that he would expect the old man to bargain for him--he knew the risk he took on in this dangerous game. A spy caught was a spy brutally executed. But he would owe Dumbledore an explanation of what he had been up to and his fate. 

_Why should I get involved with this?_ she asked suspiciously. _I've no interest in a group of humans lollying around in robes and masks and kissing some stupid prig's feet while babbling nonsense. This is your idea of--_ He wondered where she had found that out. 

He cut her off. "All right, all right. Come with me and we'll spend all of Saturday hunting," he pleaded. "I promise. You deserve a day out after all you've done. I'll understand if you're too afraid--" 

She fluffed her feathers and hissed in ire, looking twice her size. _Nobody calls Tosca afraid!_ She really was a little Gryffindor in some aspects--easy to manipulate. Her wit was at least distinctly Slytherin. 

"Very well," he replied, finishing writing the note to Dumbledore in case the plan failed. Using a Shrinking Charm, he carefully hid it beneath one of her breast feathers with a Fastening Charm. She could easily pluck it away and hand it to Dumbledore, who would know what to do to it. 

_Do you know where you're going?_ Tosca asked suspiciously. 

"I'm not a complete idiot," he said shortly, grabbing his wand so that he could eventually Apparate the two of them a little distance away from the manor so that he could transform. If they flew there it would be all night. 

She gave him a withering look. _I'm bigger than you when you're a bird, me boyo,_ she pointed out smugly. True--the female falcon was larger than the male. _And you haven't been to these things in how many years? They often meet in the Malfoy Manor. I've seen them there when I flew over towards the Ministry._

"Astute little spy, aren't you." He gently took her in hand, she careful not to grasp him too tightly with her talons. Carefully exiting the castle so as not to be seen, he then Apparated from the edge of the Forbidden Forest to a spot a little ways down the road from Malfoy Manor. They would have to fly in close, and he would have to perform a Sonorous Charm on the window of the room they were meeting in, so he could hear through it. Thankfully, a mage in Animagus form could still perform spells, so long as their wand had been on their person when they transformed. Trying to perch on a tree branch after shifting to human form, perform the charm, and transforming back without getting caught would be a bit much, especially since he was still a beginner. 

He shuddered to remember the horrors committed at Malfoy Manor in the old days. Well, now he would do his part again to end the terror and depravity of Voldemort and those who followed him.   


~~~~~~~~~~

Within two minutes, Lucius Malfoy noticed an interesting sight as he looked out the window, looking for Crabbe and Goyle nervously. Those two idiots probably didn't know what time _was_, let alone to keep track of it. The Dark Lord was growing impatient for all his Death Eaters to arrive. 

Two falcons flew outside in an interesting display, having flushed a hare from the grounds. The small black one dove at it, cunningly forcing it to turn back in fear, and there the bigger white one was waiting and ready. It missed clumsily though, and the hare dove into its burrow. Lucius smirked. Darkness always was cleverer anyhow, and it never paid to rely on others. The Dark Lord knew that as well as he did.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  


Albus Dumbledore was awakened early in the morning by a faint screeching noise coming from the foot of the bed. He blearily opened his eyes, fumbled for his wand on the bedside table, and whispered, "_Lumos!_" Immediately the room lit up so that he saw a pair of falcons sitting on the footboard. One he recognized as Severus' Tosca. "Is he all right?" he murmured softly to her. He had seemed all right after his accident in March, but one never knew with Severus. He was altogether too good at hiding himself, he thought regretfully. 

Her smaller black companion--a mate?--gave a soft call, stretched out its wings, and its outlines grow blurry, the form melding together and forming itself slowly back into--_Severus._

"Good morning," he said. "I'll answer all your questions later, but right now, you must get a message to Varvel Saker to seek safety immediately. McNair, Avery, and Malfoy are going after her tonight." Saker was one of the Ministry's Aurors. Without thought, Dumbledore reached for a quill and a sheet of parchment, writing furiously, and then handing the scroll to Fawkes. The phoenix took off in a blur of flame as he turned to Snape again, suddenly understanding what had happened. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Hermione settled her things carefully into her room in Gryffindor Tower the first morning after the Greeting Feast, secretly grateful to have her own room, however small it might have been. Listening to Parvati and Lavender giggling over _Teen Witch_ and other such nonsense had grown tiresome, especially when she was trying to study. 

Crookshanks settled down on the bed for a nap, tired after the journey on the Hogwarts Express. She closed her trunk then as she finished unpacking. Classes began tomorrow. Right then, she had to go consult with Professor Dumbledore about her duties, if any, as Head Girl for the day. Still, she snatched up a thick sheaf of parchment, hoping to get to see Professor Snape today and present her idea for a potion. She secretly hoped he wouldn't sneer and reject it as soft and Gryffindor-like and refuse to help. She was fairly certain it was within her reach, and that it would be greatly useful. 

Professor Dumbledore just laughed and told her to enjoy her last day before her responsibilities truly began. She stopped to give Fawkes a quick rub on the head, seeing him flame a happy scarlet at that. Then she descended to the dungeons to find Professor Snape. She hadn't seen him in three months, after all. 

She hoped things had improved for him over the summer with his research. No wonder he was so keen to have something to do--she'd go completely mad if forced to stay on Hogwarts' grounds for two years with nary a peek at the wide world beyond. Her summer had been quiet but pleasant, her friends asking if her applications were going in to Cambridge and Oxford, where they naturally figured she would go after the years at her "exclusive" boarding school in the Scottish Borders. She had swallowed a laugh as always, thinking, _You have no idea how exclusive it is!_

Harry had written her with the usual tales of the Dursleys treating him like maggot-infested carrion, and Ron had written complaining as he had every summer of the ruckus and lack of privacy around the house with all his brothers home. To the former she had sent some sweets and snacks to keep him going, as well as a new book on Quidditch, glad that was the last summer she'd have to hear of those horrible people. To the latter she had sympathized as always, but quite frankly she was getting tired of Ron's inferiority complex of being the youngest son; convincing himself that he'd never amount to anything, and therefore never trying. 

"Professor?" she called softly, rapping on the door of his office. He had told her before she left to come find him promptly to present her proposal. An impatient, "Come in!" answered her. She swung the door open and stepped inside. 

He sat at his desk, writing. He had kept his appearance up, she noticed, and, put on a little weight to his formerly gaunt frame. The air of frustrated rage around him seemed to have evaporated as well. A faint squeak caught her attention, and she saw a white falcon sitting on a perch near his desk, eyeing her with interest. 

"Not now, Tosca," he said impatiently. Tosca? Where had he heard of the Muggle opera, and why on Earth had he named his falcon after her? Then again, Floria Tosca was probably a character a Slytherin would appreciate--cunning and ruthless when faced with losing what she loved most. Still, they'd probably disdain the opera, since Slytherin hated everything Muggle with a passion. "Have you something to say," he drawled with the same biting humor, "or shall I presume you have just come to enjoy the pleasure of my company?"   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
_Aha, your little passager is back,_ Tosca had said in satisfaction when Miss Granger had entered his office. _I rather fancy that she likes you--she saved your life, and she wants to work with you on Potions now? Maybe she wants to cook up something of a quite different one-on-one nature with you, hmm?_ she had suggested smugly. _It's really not natural to not want to mate, Severus._ He had brusquely dismissed her, and rather acidly asked Hermione Granger what she wanted, a little more harshly than was warranted, perhaps. God help him if the girl actually _did_ find him attractive. 

"I--came to present my idea for the project, sir," she said, carefully handing him a stack of parchment inches thick. He sighed to himself. He should have known better than to tell Hermione Granger to be thorough. Well, he would pick through it in his precious little spare time, but to begin… 

"Tell me what you had in mind. Keep it short." 

"Sir?" 

"If you haven't even the grasp of what you want to do," he said crisply, "enough to _describe_ and explain it to me, I can only conclude you do not take me or research seriously enough to embark upon it. Either that or you have a complete lack of brains, which I doubt is the case with you, Miss Granger." He sat back in his chair. "Well?" he prompted. 

Brown eyes met black. She nodded slightly. "My idea, sir, is to make a Forgetfulness Potion. You know Neville's--_difficulties_--extend from bad Memory Charms as well as I do. The problem with _Oblivate_ is that it can easily go awry and put a seal over the wrong things--like the instincts for magic." She took a deep breath and plunged on. "I want to make a potion that can be directed towards eliminating specific painful memories, without the risks of the charm. I--I know it would be of use, sir, because look at how many orphans and tortured survivors the Death Eaters have left in their wake. Many of them would prefer to forget, don't you think?" 

He smiled a little sadly. "I don't think, Miss Granger, I know," he said slowly. The idea was a good one, even if it was rather sympathetic and noble-minded. Very Gryffindor of her: a Slytherin would probably be ambitious enough to take on a potion to counter _Imperio_, for instance. But perhaps there was no less virtue in dealing relief in a quieter manner, and nothing to be ashamed of in researching a potion that was distinctly possible, rather than setting the bar impossibly high and falling far short in frustration. Successful small steps produced more than failed leaps and bounds, after all. She perhaps possessed the wisdom to see that and had factored that into her thoughts. 

Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir--I didn't mean to--" She sounded genuinely chagrined to call up his sordid past and in effect fling it at him. Images rose unbidden to his mind in a loathsome muddle. He too had left orphans and tortured survivors in his wake, a lifetime ago. Truly they probably would like to forget. He would like to be able to forget as well, instead of waking from nightmares of the monster he had been. 

"There is little time to be wasted," he said shortly, "crying over a spilled cauldron. Now: it seems a plausible and very likely well-thought--" a wry glance at the stack of parchment thick as several volumes of the encyclopedia, "--proposal. Well done. What is your idea for proceeding?" 

"Well, I was thinking," she said, face now animated as she sat down, excited now that he had deemed her idea worthy, "that--well--it would need a directional; something to make it graft to and erase _only_ very specific memories, not half your mind. That's the trouble with _Oblivate_. It's such a powerful Charm that controlling it is next to impossible--you can really only hope that you got the memory to erase and not too much of the other, vital parts of the brain. That's probably part of what happened to Neville--it took out his magical instincts and completely damaged his mechanism for memory, hence why he can't seem to remember even the simplest things sometimes." 

"I think, Miss Granger," he said, trying to be as kind as he could, as it was a good idea, "that if you are doing this with the idea of curing Mr. Longbottom from the damage done, you are rather too late." 

She sighed. "I know that, sir. Neville's my friend and I'd love to be able to help him. But if I can maybe prevent more people from being damaged in their lives, isn't that always something worth fighting for?" 

In spite of himself, he smiled a very little. _Birds of a feather,_ Tosca crowed triumphantly. _She wants to get into the fray just like you and do some good._

"Later, Tosca!" he almost snapped. She had better not be entertaining an idea like that. He fought because he owed a debt. He was not some wide-eyed visionary who didn't know what could happen to him on the front lines. The risk had been carefully weighed and accepted long ago--his life would be more than worth the information he could bring to save others. 

He began considering the potion. There were various Forgetfulness Potions, and the one she had wisely decided to be the one most easy to adapt (he shared the opinion) was also the most difficult to brew. It wasn't something for dabblers in Potions to try. It required precise timing in adding ingredients, and use of some unstable ingredients that had to be added immediately from the jar; else they'd oxidize and crumble rapidly. The directional would be more difficult, of course. 

"Will that be all?" he asked Miss Granger. 

"Oh. Yes, sir. So--is it all right?" she asked hopefully. 

"Yes. Your time for working, with my assistance if you wish, is set aside as three hours on Tuesday afternoons after your Arithmancy class. Any time upon weekends that you wish is also available, and we will consult weekly on Monday evenings for an hour so that I can chart your progress and you may seek any guidance you wish. Is that acceptable?" 

She nodded eagerly. "Good. Then come with me." He rose from his chair; ignoring Tosca's laugh, and headed out the door, Hermione close behind. He led her to a long-unused workroom that he had scoured and equipped over the summer. "This will be your laboratory." He reached into his robes and handed her a heavy brass key. "That is to unlock the door, after you have said the password to take down the ward, which is," he winced, "'Sugar Plum'." He really wanted to tear into Hipollyta Franks for choosing such inane passwords five centuries before when she had magically protected the workrooms due to the secretive nature of their contents. And she a _Slytherin_! It was a disgrace. "I would ask that you leave it locked at all times, of course." 

"I will, sir," she promised, after giggling at the password. He then handed her another key. This one was etched pewter, incised with various arcane runes. She recognized only a few of them. 

"This is to the Potions storeroom," he said, and added at her look of surprise, "since I am not willing to fetch and carry every time you need an ingredient. If I trust you enough to experiment around, I think you can be trusted to get your own components. However," here he paused, "any more restricted ingredients, you shall have to inform me of. If I do not have it in my office, it shall be procured for you. No ingredients leave the dungeons, no free-form experimenting, and please try to stay within authorized guidelines." It wouldn't do at all for him to be dragged to Azkaban for a student he was sponsoring fooling with illegal potions. 

"I understand," she nodded. "I don't know how much I'll be able to do initially, as my first step is to brew the basic Forgetfulness Potion, and you know as well as I that it takes eight weeks, with only a minimum of stirring and additions every few days." She made a face. "During which time I really can't brew anything else. So I will probably be searching more for how to direct it during that time." 

"Very well. Until Tuesday, then. I think we may skip tomorrow's consultation, and can probably pass it by entirely until the Forgetfulness Potion is done. Good day, Miss Granger, and welcome back." 

She bid him a good day and headed out of the dungeons. He headed back to his office, sitting down in his chair, and started thinking of something that could target down to the specific memory to eliminate it. He almost ignored the smug little chuckles from the corner. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

It was a Friday evening in mid-September, and they were together in the workroom in companionable silence. Snape had dragged in a minor project of his own so that he had something else to do besides stand there and stare as Hermione quite competently fended for herself, but for the occasional question. She was, after all, still in the relatively easy stage of making a large batch of Forgetfulness Potion as a base for her research. 

He stared at the Asclepio Potion, a powerful pain-reliever. He was trying to improve it a bit, hoping to find a way dull the pain of the Dark Mark a little further. True, he couldn't get rid of the damnable thing: he needed it to know when the Death Eaters were being called for a meeting so he could go spy on them. But although the pain was dulled in his falcon state, if he looked at the inside of his left wing near the tip, there was a faint pale-colored blotch against the midnight color of the feathers that throbbed painfully like sharply pressing a healing bruise. A blotch in the rough shape of a skull with a serpent for a tongue: it seemed the Dark magic of the Mark was so profound he couldn't escape it even with a shape-shift. 

The pain, of course, only got worse the closer he got to Voldemort. Sitting right outside the window at Malfoy Manor, with the Dark Lord right inside had it aching quite acutely. And he couldn't concentrate and remember what was being said as well as he should have when he was sitting there with gritted teeth--well, gritted _beak_. Thank Heavens Tosca was there as well and could recall some of the words and nuances he missed in a haze of pain. 

He added mulberry leaf to the potion. The trouble was finding a painkiller that wouldn't make him woozy or sleepy. He needed his wits about him. He looked over his shoulder where Miss Granger was diligently adding the week's portion of macaw feather. 

He truly enjoyed these sessions--working over their cauldrons sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes exchanging ideas and such with a freedom that could never be found in Potions class. He had grown to respect her mind, at least--the glowing reports from all her other professors hadn't merely been the work of a successful teacher's pet. Her idea was better than many the Ministry idiots could come up with, and her determination and work ethic were commendable, to say the least. Thus he treated her as an intellectual equal in those hours together. In class, of course, he had a reputation to upkeep, and he knew she wouldn't want him to favor her there. He knew all too well the nasty rumors that would spring from that. 

"I'm eighteen today," she said suddenly. He barely caught the words as he put in extract of hedgehog spine. 

"Oh?" When he was eighteen, he had been burning with rage and injustice of seven years at Hogwarts and all too eager to listen to those would promised him power. "Happy Birthday, Miss Granger," he said idly, as much to pacify her as anything else, uncertain of what she wanted in saying that. Why _had_ she said it? 

"Thank you, sir," she said. She smiled a bit sadly. "Ron forgot, and Harry had Quidditch all day in preparation for the match with Ravenclaw, so he's forgotten as well." Her tone bespoke volumes about the simple wistful yearning for _somebody_ to know and care that she was a year older now. That was probably her reason, then. 

He grimaced. Not that anyone had cared when he was at Hogwarts, or even now. He doubted anybody besides Dumbledore would know that he would be thirty-seven in two months. "Shall I find some pretense for Potter and Weasley to spend detention slicing and drying Yarak eyeballs by hand, Miss Granger?" he asked with a smirk. "I do have a supply needing it, and a shortage of miscreants right now." Nobody had managed to get up to too much mischief since classes began two weeks before. 

"No, no," she said hastily, turning back to her cauldron. He returned to the potion, as it now required being stirred for ten minutes without rest, adding willow bark every two minutes. "Oh, sir? I need the Jynx tooth now, and you know it needs to be fresh from the jar." Jynx tooth crumbled quickly when exposed to the air. 

Jynx parts were ingredients set firmly in his office away from general student use. "My office is unlocked," he said, continuing to stir. The office adjoined this, one of two main workrooms. "I can't leave the potion, so please just go fetch it yourself. It will be on the fifth shelf down, third row from the right, and it's the second jar back. Dark blue glass, with a brass lid." The blue glass and storage at the back of the shelf was to keep light from tainting the teeth as well. 

He knew his own system backward and forward, but it would drive others mad trying to find something. He kept stirring, adding in willow bark again. After all, she was Gryffindor; quite trustworthy. He could turn his back and put blind faith in her honor, as he couldn't with a Slytherin. They'd probably nick all sorts of things to brew God knew what.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione stepped carefully into the office, turning to the vast array of shelves. Jars of all shapes, sizes, and colors stood there in a riotous array. Their labels were written in a foreign alphabet--possibly Greek or Russian. He had mentioned he had a complex system and labels that not many could decipher, to prevent theft. Momentarily she regretted leaving Muggle schooling before having the chance to learn. She'd have loved to know what was in the large jar by her hand. It was no ingredient she had ever seen before. Purples, blues, yellows, oranges, reds, and greens all swirled together in an oily liquid form, like some violently colorful tie-dyed shirt from the Muggle world. 

She heard Tosca squawk her greetings behind her, and turned momentarily to give her a quick caress on the back, which the white bird obviously enjoyed. Saying her greetings, she turned back to the shelves. _Fifth shelf down, and third r--_

She heard something hit the floor by her feet. Turning abruptly, she saw Tosca had landed on a half-open drawer on Professor Snape's desk and was cheerfully digging through it, grabbing things and flinging them hither and yon. 

She chuckled in spite of herself and leaned down to pick up the few sheets of parchment Tosca had tossed her way. "Now that'll be enough, else he'll be having roast falcon for dinner." Tosca gave her a smug look and flapped back up to her perch, leaving her to clean up. 

She happened to glance at the top page in her hand. In Snape's bold, meticulous writing, the notes dated last spring, a listing of Potions ingredients immediately caught her eye. _Boomslang skin, horn of a bicorn: what does he want with Polyjuice Potion?_ Drawn to read more, she let out an involuntary gasp as she read more and discovered that it wasn't Polyjuice Potion that he had been brewing. It was a potion to…_help become an Animagus?_

Struck dumb, she grabbed up more parchment, the pieces all suddenly dropping into place. _This_ was his project last year. And he had obviously succeeded, as he was still here. Did this mean--a vision of Rita Skeeter coming to mind--he was using his new ability to spy? 

_Professor McGonagall, I've found a good use for Animagism_, she thought. _To go spy on Voldemort!_ Looking in the drawer, she saw a thick sheaf of notes; almost as much parchment as her project proposal. _Well prepared as always._

She moved to put the papers back, frozen in indecision. On the one hand, he would kill her. On the other hand, she had gotten no further with researching a director towards eliminating only certain memories for her potion. She had raked Hogwarts' library time and again to no avail. 

Was it Providence that had sent this her way, perhaps? Was this a chance to make her mark in the war in a different fashion? This was difficult magic, after all--nobody could sneer and say she was just a teacher's pet or a Mudblood no-talent if she managed this. And she would be helping to save _lives_. Wasn't that far nobler than being boring, painfully correct and good Hermione Granger and plodding along with Arithmancy equations just to make top marks? And she had heard Professor McGonagall saying quietly to Professor Snape three days ago that Voldemort had caught two Ministry spies amidst his ranks. They would need replacements. 

_If something is truly worth fighting for,_ she thought, _it's worth risking life, limb, and a place at Lothlorien for._ She nodded firmly. Truly a Gryffindor sentiment; sometimes people had also wondered what in her had merited her place in that house rather than Ravenclaw. Well, now she'd prove it. She was more than a mind. 

Hastily, she grabbed a quill from up her sleeve. She grasped the rest of the notes from the drawer and put them next to the quill, putting the sheets still clutched in her hand in the pile. Drawing her wand, she whispered, "_Replicus!_," aiming first at the parchment, then the quill. The quill slowly paled, changing shape, growing to be a stack of parchment exactly the twin of the first. 

She then murmured, "_Reducio_," and the copied sheaf of Snape's painstaking research on Animagism became no more than the size of a Muggle pack of playing cards. She put it in her robes and shoved the original papers back into the desk, closing the drawer quietly. She turned to the shelves and grabbed the jar of Jynx teeth, almost dropping it with hands trembling. 

She hurried back out to the workroom, intently staring at her cauldron so that he wouldn't turn and see it written on her face. She wasn't used to breaking rules like this…even now she heard something within her protest that she shouldn't have done it. She added the teeth, forcing herself to calm down. _It will be for the good,_ she consoled. _You're not doing this just to become an Animagus for no reason but to show off. You're going to use it. That's more than the Marauders did with it in their school days, and they had no qualms, so buck up!_

Two minutes of quick stirring, and she set the spoon beside the cauldron. "Good night, sir," she said. "Until Monday." 

"Good night, Miss Granger," he said nonchalantly. She slipped out of the workroom, feeling her frustrations earlier in the day over getting nowhere with the potion evaporating. She'd still be of great use to the cause now, just in a different, much more direct way. The thought cheered her immensely. It was her birthday, and she felt like she had been given a rather wonderful gift in those notes. She settled down on her bed, relieved that her homework was nearly done, pulled the notes from her pocket, murmured, "_Engorgio_" to return them to full size, and began to read intently as Crookshanks settled on her lap in contentment.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Tosca chuckled smugly to herself as she watched the girl Severus had taken under his wing leave the workroom. She had done precisely what the falcon had hoped: taken up the notes. 

After all, she was getting rather tired of flying all over the countryside nearly every week and listening to a bunch of idiot humans wanting to take over the world and kill off half their own kind: the Muggles. _Don't see gyrfalcons trying to murder each other,_ she thought wryly. _Stupid humans._

She had been taking a lazy flight after hunting two nights before when she had faintly heard the girl talking through an open window. Lighting upon the sill, she had listened while the poor thing spoke to her cat of her need to be of use to the world. She had seen the girl teased in her years at Hogwarts, and things hadn't seemed to improve. 

The potion she was making under Severus' watchful eye was at a standstill--the route she had wanted to take after brewing the basic Forgetfulness Potion would not work and she was bemoaning how it was a failure. No, _she_ was a failure, and she would always be disliked and useless. 

She was even more apart from people, she had told Crookshanks, the nasty-looking ginger cat; now that she was Head Girl. They considered her even farther from being one of them due to that. They had to watch themselves around her, or she might punish them, so they didn't know when a joke was right or not. Her first responsibility was to the school, and so they were cautious around her. Even her old friends were wary. 

She wasn't usually the sort to give a fig about the petty problems of the overly fragile human ego, but somehow the girl's gloom reminded her of Severus'. After all, she had been the one to listen to all his self-hating rants over the past eight years. So she figured she'd lend a claw to the girl, and to Severus. The two were perfect for each other, of course, if they could get their egos out of the dung heap. Both were remarkably intelligent, with a need to be of use, introverted, and both were quite lonely. 

Being a falcon spy had given Severus purpose, so she had contrived that once the girl had come into the office to lead her to the notes, hoping to help do the same for Hermione Granger. If the girl became an animal of any sort, hopefully she wouldn't have to go out on these idiot missions, since Hermione would be more than eager to do the job and be of use. She had been about ready to steal the notes and fly up to her room, leaving them there. But this worked even better--Severus would never know. _And perhaps,_ she thought cheerfully, _as animals they might have some sense and quit with all this, 'She's a student, he's a teacher' bollocks. Humans make things much too complex, really._ With that, she fell asleep shortly, feeling satisfied that she had done her part. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

It was two days before Halloween now, and Hermione was slowly eating a pumpkin pasty from the staff table where the Head Boy and Girl took their meals. She looked a little sadly towards the Gryffindor table where Ron and Harry now sat, laughing and eating some Licorice Bats. 

With them was Seamus Finnegan, and they were looking quite chummy. _I've already been replaced_, she thought sadly. _Head Girl isn't all it's cracked up to be._ She had been thrilled at the prestige, the responsibility, the trust placed in her. She should have realized it when Ron and Harry seemed unusually stiff around her in those first weeks, never up to their usual jokes or pranks. They must have been afraid she would have to use her authority and punish them. 

Without that easy camaraderie, and with Hermione's sudden long hours in the dungeons with the long-hated Professor Snape, the three friends had grown apart. They gave her apologetic glances now and again when they passed in the halls, but it was obvious that she was now irreversibly "_them_" instead of "us". She never would have thought it of "noble" Gryffindors to give up a friend so easily, but apparently Ron and Harry had their own agenda. 

And too, she still had gotten no brilliant inspirations for a directional to add to the Memory Erasing Potion, and she was a little discouraged now that its base of Forgetfulness Potion was only a week from being complete. She and Snape had already had their work session this evening. True, since she had found Snape's notes, she had spent most of her spare time studying those instead of research ideas, but Snape would be suspicious if she suddenly gave up now. She could imagine the scathing contempt of his two wasted months for her to suddenly say she couldn't and had no clue. It didn't indicate much for her mind or maturity; that was for certain. Well, the moon was full tonight, and that was needed for the Animagus transition. She'd do it tonight, and then resume work on the potion. After all, there would be no harm in asking him if _he_ had any ideas. He was nowhere near as contemptuous in the workroom as he was in class, and willingly answered her questions and critiqued her ideas. 

He had of course done the real backbreaking work of researching the magic of Animagism. That was the most time-consuming element: that and making sure one had the necessary power. That was probably why the Marauders had taken three years to do it. They had gotten the idea as second years, after all, and there wasn't a second year out there that was a good enough witch or wizard to attempt this. As a seventh year and a quite powerful witch in her own right, she knew she could do it. All she had to do was follow Snape's notes. 

She finished her pasty and excused herself, murmuring some faint excuse of studying for the test in Ancient Runes tomorrow. Professor McGonagall gave her a look of approval for that. She had done all her studying that afternoon, of course. Quietly she headed up to her room and withdrew the notes from where they were hidden behind her mirror. 

A faint queasy feeling came over her. If she failed in mid-process, she was done for. This was an all-or-nothing situation; a sort she had always shunned. _If Snape had the courage to turn against Voldemort, knowing he'd be killed if he was caught,_ she thought with determination, _you can have the nerve to risk your neck a little for this. After all, what you're intending to do with it is far more dangerous._ She nodded decisively and began a quick review. 

He had listed various routes to Animagism. He had probably used Salazar Slytherin's Shapeshifter's Potion, naturally. But she didn't think she could steal enough phoenix ash and zebra hair from his stores to make that, if she could even have found it on his shelves. She had barely found the boomslang skin and horn of a bicorn second yearas it was. Since the thefts from his stores of Barty Crouch, Jr. in her fourth year, Snape had made his system all the more difficult to decipher to anyone but himself to deter those with inclinations to filch. The foreign labels were new since second year; that was for certain. She also didn't think several other routes were plausible: the magic being rather obsolete, and the idea of just sitting and down and going at it without any aid was quite frankly foolish. She had settled on the Amorphous Charm: she had always excelled at Charms. 

She took a deep breath and sat on the bed, drawing her wand nervously. Unicorn tail hair and apple wood: there were smudges and fingerprints on it, she noted. Polishing them off quickly, she cleared her throat, and pointed her wand at herself and said in a near-whisper the word committing her to this, for well or ill: "_Amorphio._"   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Crookshanks sauntered back into Hermione's room, satisfied after having caught two of the chattering mice down in the kitchens. They reminded him too much of that nasty rat-human, Scabbers, from four years ago. He recalled with pleasure helping the dog Animagus Black catch him, at least temporarily. He had known there was something wrong with the rat the moment he laid eyes on him in the pet shop. 

He stepped into the room and his hackles immediately rose, and he bared his teeth and hissed at the intruder sitting on Hermione's bed, looking dazed. _Get lost or I'll rip you to pieces!_ Nobody would harm Hermione while he was around, and he knew there were more than a few animals working for the Dark side on behalf of their human masters. What would they want with Hermione? Especially since she wasn't connected to the Potter boy any longer? 

The peregrine falcon turned to him in shock, staring dumbly. _Fierce bird of prey my hairballs,_ he thought, slinking towards it for the pounce. _Nothing more than a big and overconfident pigeon when you get down to it._ He crouched, ready to spring on it. _Tell your master this is what happens to those who meddle with--_ he snarled. 

_Crooky!_ it shouted, his mind automatically translating the screeches and chirps to words. _It's me, Hermione!_ Only Hermione called him "Crooky", which was faintly embarrassing. 

He glowered at the bird. _What did your neighbor down the street try to do to me this past summer, if you are Hermione?_ It was humiliating to recall, but it would definitely prove it was her. He needed something that wasn't common knowledge. 

_She tried to put a bonnet on you and put you in her cradle as her "baby",_ Hermione laughed. _I can hear you talk…_ she said in amazement. 

_Of course I can talk,_ he said impatiently. _You might have warned me that you were going to try this Animagus bit tonight--I thought you might have been someone else. I would have had you in pieces before you could do a thing._

_I know,_ she said, her tone sheepish. _It just didn't occur to me that you'd--ah--understand._ Now she sounded very embarrassed. She sighed, stretching her wings. _Drat. Apparently this doesn't come with the normal falcon knowledge. I'll have to learn to fly. Maybe Severus' Tosca will teach me…I assume she can talk too?_

_Of course she can. We can all talk. You humans just don't speak our tongue normally,_ he said patiently, leaping up onto the bed and sitting beside her. _Peregrine falcon: very Gryffindor of you. The "noble bird of royalty" and all that._

_More useful to spy than being a Gryffindor lion,_ she said agreeably. _Let me try and change back here, in case anybody comes calling. Not that they have this year,_ she said moodily. Her shape began to blur, like water rippling smoothly over rocks. 

A few long minutes and she was Hermione again, with the familiar wavy brown hair and keen brown eyes. "I'm exhausted," she muttered, collapsing on the bed. 

_Can you still hear me?_

"Quite clearly. Well, wouldn't Professor Snape love this?" she chuckled. "I'll have to prove myself without letting him know it's me," she frowned. "Else it's years of detention." Crookshanks cuddled up next to her. 

_I'd suggest that you talk to Tosca about that. She's quite a smart bird, if a bit full of herself._ The two of them had somewhat of a mutual disdain, he seeing her as a glorified and pompous pigeon, she seeing him as little more than an overgrown and arrogant little prey-mammal. Both claimed that they could hunt the other down with hardly any effort. _Wouldn't be surprised if she's out to help her master; Heaven knows he needs all the help he can get,_ he added in amusement. 

"Very funny, Crookshanks. He's had a difficult life, I think. And he's certainly treating me better than my so-called friends who abandoned me the moment they thought I might stop their bloody precious merriment. But yes, she would be good to talk to," she said thoughtfully. "I'll want to do the transition successfully a few times at least before I go to her, though. Well, I'll practice, and talk to her over the weekend." She turned to him and said, "Do you think she purposely made me find those notes, perhaps?" 

_Wouldn't doubt it for an instant,_ he replied dryly. He noticed her eyelids drooping after the extreme exertion of the magic. _Good night, Hermione, and good luck._ With that, he headed towards Severus Snape's quarters to go forewarn the big white falcon and perhaps, horrors of horrors, even _plead_ with her for assistance. After all, she _did_ belong to the man who was quite a match for Hermione, unlike those prats, Harry and Ron.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Tosca landed softly on the perch insider her mews, content. It had been good hunting tonight: she had caught one of Hogwarts' fat, lazy pigeons with almost too much ease. That plus the fact she knew that if she wheedled with Severus, he'd feed her as well made her mood quite good. 

_Oi! Tosca!_ came a faint meowing from outside the door. 

She glanced impatiently towards the door. _Crookshanks…is that you? What do you want, you overgrown mouse?_ She tolerated him because he belonged to Severus' would-be mate. Well, mate if _she_ had anything to say about it. 

_Did you make her find those notes of his about Animagism? If you did, bravo; it's snapped her out of her slump quite nicely._

She flew over to the doorknob and carefully turned it with her claws, letting the ginger-furred cat in. _She managed it?_ she asked the cat. 

_Indeed she did,_ he replied quite smugly. _I think those two are a good match, and if they learn to go spy together, it should only help, hmm?_

_So did you come only to give me accolades? My my, what an ego boost._ She studied him. _So, what form has she taken? Something disgustingly noble and bold, and very probably useless as a spy, I imagine. Gryffindors are not known for their practicality: they're mostly annoyingly flamboyant._

_Quite practical, although it is noble and bold. Peregrine falcon._ Tosca stared at him and laughed. She couldn't have asked for Hermione Granger to have a better Animagus form. 

_So I presume you're here to ask me to teach her, as she won't be able to fly and such?_

_Yes, but how did you know that?_

_I had to teach Severus all that. He's actually a gyrfalcon._ Both of them chortled, that only reinforcing the opinion of the rightness of those two for each other. If the two's own spirits could guide them to becoming animals so closely related, that was good indication. _So she'll be dropping by to ask my help, eh? Don't mind if I pretend we never had this conversation, do you?_

_Not a bit._ She was quite pleased, indeed. She could train the girl to replace her as Severus' partner with nary a hitch. After all, Severus would never take her on if he knew it was Hermione Granger. She'd figure out how to make certain he didn't know. But Hermione would be much better at it than herself: she was tired of sitting and listening to the humans plotting idiocies when she'd much rather spend the pleasure of a lovely evening flying free. If Hermione wanted to do all that, more power to her. 

Crookshanks sauntered back towards the door, tail held jauntily up. He looked back over his shoulder at her. _Thank you. But you know something truly frightening? If we do get those two together; that does mean we'll have to live together._ He showed his teeth in jest, and she replied by raising one foot with its sharp talons. _Well, it's the white flag of truce for now,_ he purred, slipping out the door. 

Three minutes later, Severus came in, teeth gritted and clutching his arm. She sighed. _Another night out it is,_ she thought wearily. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

It came at lunch the first week of November. Hermione was discussing flying with Madame Hooch, smiling secretively to herself. Tosca had indeed taught her to fly, and Hooch looked a little puzzled at someone who had been passable at best in Flying her first year being suddenly so keen upon it. 

The owls swooped in, carrying the day's mail. A bustle of noise came as various parcels were dropped to students: treats and gifts from home, letters, and the sort. She smiled to hear some of the owls groaning, _Too heavy…ugh! Icarus Haverstaff? Is that an "L" there in the middle?_ and the like. She was surprised to receive a package herself. She opened it to find a letter in a sharp hand from the Library of the Ministry informing her that Professor Severus Snape had asked for copies of articles from various potions journals concerning Forgetfulness Potions for a Miss Hermione Granger's research, and the requested articles were enclosed. 

She looked down the table at Snape and gave him a smile. She hadn't been able to read those before, as the journals were off-limits to students without proper authorization. Snape knew her idea had faltered a bit, and in the spirit of his being determined not to hold her hand and do her work, had obviously sent these as a possible assistance. He met her eyes for a moment and gave her a brief half-smile, then turned back to his meal. 

There was a collective gasp from the Slytherin table as a Great Horned Owl headed for them at the end of the mail carriers, bearing a distinctly black envelope. The Slytherins seemed frozen in fear, everybody at Hogwarts knowing what that envelope meant. An official Ministry death notice: somebody had just lost family to Lord Voldemort and was being notified. Hermione froze as she faintly heard the owl muttering a name, interspersed with, _Oh dear, oh dear. I hate this job…_

All eyes were fixed, and the hall was silent, as the owl scanned the table, cruising in slowly. It finally dropped the letter in the lap of Florence Lowell, a young second year. The girl's eyes went wide and she let out a cry, clutching the envelope. She leapt to her feet and ran from the Great Hall. One of her young friends made as if to rise and follow, but Arabella Vickerson, a Slytherin prefect, gently put a hand on her shoulder and gestured for her to sit. It was better to let Florence have her initial tears in private--the comfort of friends would be in use later. The owl gave a sympathetic hoot of, _I'm so sorry, Miss Lowell_, and quickly flew off, as if to remove itself from what it had delivered. 

She saw Draco Malfoy turn back to his meal with a smirk as though nothing had happened. A frisson of rage flared within her--of course he wouldn't care, even if the girl were of his own house. His father was one of Voldemort's followers. Almost of its own accord, her gaze turned to Professor Snape. His face looked ashen as he stared at Florence's empty chair: a man staring straight into Hell. Conversation didn't resume in the Great Hall for fifteen minutes, and even then it was hushed and grave.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The moment he had heard the owl mumbling the girl's name, his mind had been racing furiously with accusatory questions. What had he missed? This was the second one this year. True, there had been seven by Christmas last year, but still…two. Was Voldemort not summoning him to some meetings, too bored to toy with him every time after two years? Was he missing some names reported in his haze of pain? Were there random victims that weren't even mentioned? He hadn't been able to save them all even when he spied in human form, but each death, each notice, was burned into his mind forever, the names accusing him of failure. 

_Menard and Janet Lowell,_ he wearily added to the list. He a Hufflepuff and she a Ravenclaw; they had somehow produced a Slytherin daughter. Lowell was one of the Slytherins he was sure of never to join the Dark side, at least. As for probably half his house, he was trying to covertly guide them away from the Dark Mark they might have taken if left unchecked. He drew them in with his favoritism, got them to confide, and tried to guide their paths, subtle as a serpent. 

It didn't matter that the other three houses thought he was a blatant and unfair git: even if he hadn't acted as one, it had been Slytherin against the other three houses for years. He was the only one who seemed to give a damn about the Slytherins and think they were more than evil junior Death Eaters, so naturally they came to him with troubles, never guessing his plan. He remembered bitterly when he had heard Dumbledore effectively agree with Minerva McGonagall years ago that his life had been worth less than Sirius Black's good name. 

_The worth of a Slytherin,_ he thought sadly. _And then those same self-righteous Gryffindors wonder why Slytherins turn to those who say that they will appreciate us and give us power for once._ He had produced decent success with most of the house, though. Crabbe and Goyle were such idiots it was no use, and Malfoy--Malfoy was likely a loss as well. But if he lost only those three, plus whatever Dark wizards slipped through the cracks in the other houses, he was doing well. Not good enough, but not terribly, at least. He was veteran enough to know that he could never save them all, but failure cut him no less deeply. His failures in his house would produce more innocent victims. 

He would have to talk to Florence later, being her Head of House. But he didn't know if he could meet her eyes knowing that he had failed to save her parents. Carefully he excused himself, heading for his dungeons for a little solitude.   


~~~~~~~~~~

It was a week later when Tosca swooped directly into her bedroom one evening while Hermione was eagerly writing down an idea the potions articles had given her, applied with a little Muggle science. "What is it?" she asked the falcon, who landed beside her. Tosca looked at her sharply. 

_Well, if you're going to do it, tonight is the night._

"All right," she said hesitantly. "Do you think I'm ready?" 

_You can fly, you can act like any wild falcon. Now come on already, or are you backing down? I thought you Gryffindors were brave._ Hermione smiled a little at the obvious Slytherin-style baiting, reassured. Within a minute she was stretching her wings and adjusting her mind to her falcon form. 

_Good luck!_ Crookshanks yowled after her, as she flew down to Snape's window. She wasn't quite sure how an above ground window put her into the underground dungeons, but she wasn't at a point to scruple much. 

"_Tosca!_" Severus nearly bellowed. "Blast it, we need to leave!" 

_Hi, Chief,_ she said insouciantly, landing on a table. _I'm feeling a little down tonight--not up to flying long distances. I do it often enough it's getting to me._

"Damn it, Tosca, this is _not_ the time for you to get sulky!" 

_I brought my replacement. This is my friend--_ Tosca hesitated. 

Hermione thought quickly, and blurted in falcon-tongue the first name coming to mind, naturally a heroine of another Muggle opera. _Musetta!_ She almost started laughing at that: her personality was as far away from that of Musetta as night from day. 

_Musetta_, Tosca nodded. Hermione gave thanks that Snape didn't hear her words in her own voice; else she'd have been done for. _She'll fly with you and come back to Dumbledore if you're caught, and I admit she's a good deal more keen on the idea than me._

"Well, Musetta," Snape said, turning to her with a frown, "you're ready to leave?" 

_Absolutely._

"You do what I tell you to. The last thing I need is for some overly keen idiot to get both of us killed. The world might not miss one falcon less, but they'd miss a spy." 

_Understood. Now, hadn't we better get going before the meeting's over?_ she said with a Slytherin's arrogant impatience. 

Snape nodded, holding out an arm for her to climb on, which she did. Carefully he made his way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and Apparated. 

When she looked around, she saw a large manor house a little ways up the road. _Malfoy Manor?_ she asked. 

"Yes." He set her down, and within thirty seconds, a black gyrfalcon stood in his place. Tosca had told her that was his form, but she was still a bit surprised to see him in it. _Now, follow me_, he ordered, spreading his wings and heading for the house. She was momentarily startled to hear his words without the usual silken tone, but obeyed, trailing him. 

He flew around the house, remarking, _Meeting in the gardens. Excellent; no Charms to perform on windows and such, and we can hide better._ He was well-hidden already, black feathers almost blending into the night sky. Her off-white and slate-grey stood out a little more, but probably not as visibly as Tosca's dazzling white. 

They perched on a branch overhanging the garden, and she heard a faint hissing, serpent-like voice. "…the Drachenfeuers…" She gagged slightly to see the figure that spoke--tall, skeletally lean, without a trace of hair. Corpse-pale, a snake's nostrils, and red eyes glowing like coals. _He's not even human!_ she gasped. 

_He hasn't been human for years, Musetta,_ Snape observed dryly, _but his resurrection two years ago didn't help. I assume Tosca has informed you of the pertinent events of the past years, as falcons generally would not make such a thing their business?_

_Yes, for the most part._ They watched in silence while the hooded and masked Death Eaters plotted and planned, discussing tomorrow evening's "entertainment" of killing the Muggle-born Drachenfeuers. Their son, Gawain, was a fourth-year Hufflepuff, and their daughter, Margaise, would begin at Hogwarts next year. 

This had been his life years ago…these dark and secret meetings. Plans to torture and kill: after seeing them up close and realizing what they were, it only reinforced her opinion of his character that he had come to his senses before it was too late. She was faintly aware of Snape shifting uncomfortably now and again. _Pr--Severus,_ she barely caught herself with an icy rush of horror at nearly giving herself away, his given name odd on her tongue, _will you be all right?_ He nodded curtly, and she recalled Tosca mentioning him sometimes missing things at meetings due to distraction from the pain of his Mark. She just listened all the more intently at that. 

Two hours of some of the darkest plots she had ever heard, and the Death Eaters Disapparated. Voldemort was last to leave. When all was silent in the garden after Lucius Malfoy went back into the manor, Snape abruptly took wing and called for her to leave as well. 

Within fifteen minutes, they were back at Hogwarts, she reminding him of the things said so that he could report to Dumbledore. He gave her a smile and thanked her, idly caressing her back for a moment, and then turned to make his report. She flew up to her own window, and reverted back into her human form, collapsing on the bed, exhausted but thrilled. She had done it--she had successfully entered the war. And Professor Snape had even _thanked_ her for it. _Now, if he knew it was me--five hundred points from Gryffindor!_ she thought, laughing. 

Crookshanks hopped onto the bed, asking, _How was it?_

"I think it went well," she said thoughtfully. "I can do it--do something of use for once." She fell asleep with a satisfied smile on her face. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Ron Weasley looked up at the staff table during dinner one evening in late November, and saw Hermione there, talking animatedly with Professor McGonagall. _Doesn't she miss us at all?_ he thought, staring at his spaghetti and meatballs. He would admit it--he missed her. 

Harry was so damn busy practicing constantly at Quidditch since it was out that the Cardiff Dragons were scouting him to play for them once he graduated Hogwarts. Already Harry was practically obsessed with the idea: trying to teach himself Welsh, enlisting the help of Marion Rhys, a sixth-year Welsh-born Gryffindor. He and Marion were quite chummy indeed: he spent most of his time not on his broom around her, moony-eyed. She was cute, he supposed, with blue eyes and wavy black hair, but it was obvious he was a third wheel when he tried to pal around with the two of them. 

Even now, the two of them were sitting together, Harry giving her a goofy smile and encouraging her to teach him things to say in Welsh, completely mangling the pronunciation and causing her to laugh. He had the urge to dump his plate over Harry's head for his being so disgustingly infatuated. Friends for _six_ bloody years, then Hermione went off and got all high and mighty as Head Girl, and Harry was becoming a complete strutting Quidditch jock with a sickening crush. 

He turned his back on Harry, looking again at Hermione. Yes, he truly did miss her, even her more priggish moments. But since she had gotten the word of her being Head Girl this year, he had watched his step around her. After all, if he pulled a prank on Malfoy, she'd take points from Gryffindor rather than laugh. She had seemed so distant this fall, as if she were somehow suddenly better than the rest of them, and always busy either with duties or that Potions project with Snape. She really had changed. The few times she had spoken of her project, she hadn't even indicated disgust at working with the greasy git. 

Still, feeling virtually alone was a nasty feeling. Even if she laughed in his face, he'd try to talk to her. As she left the staff table, he hopped to his feet, cursing as his feet got tangled for a moment in the straps of Harry's schoolbag. The two lovebirds didn't even notice. He went after her, trying to make it look casual until he left the Great Hall so as not to be obvious to everybody there. "Mione, wait!" he called. 

She turned in the corridor and looked at him calmly. "Yes, Ron?" she said patiently. 

He felt himself turning red, thinking stupidly how foolish red-haired and freckled people looked blushing. "Well, ahh--how have you been lately? I haven't seen you…" 

"Quite all right. How's Harry?" 

"Wrapped up in Marion Rhys," he said in disgust, rolling his eyes. "I'm just surprised I haven't caught them snogging yet." 

She grinned slyly. "I have. In one of the abandoned classrooms: I agreed not to take points from Gryffindor. He was suitably grateful." She smiled wistfully. "Nothing like it used to be, though. Do you two really think I'm suddenly somebody whose only purpose would be to take points from you, and so I'm to be abandoned rather than to spoil your fun? I thought more of you, Ron, and of Harry. I was wrong, I see." She turned to leave. 

He caught her arm. "I'm sorry," he pleaded. "It's--well, I don't remember Bill being Head Boy much, but when Percy was, he became even more of a prig than he had been. And I saw that happening to you. Talking disrespectfully to a teacher? That'll be ten points from Gryffindor, and all that. Don't you remember when we used to sit and make fun of Snape and laugh about it?" 

"I recall you two were doing most of the laughing," she said stiffly. "And there's more to him than you think. But fine, is what you're saying that you want me back? Aren't you afraid I'll dock points?" she asked scornfully. 

This wasn't the quiet Hermione he had known. There was something different about her, and damned if he could put his finger on it. "I'd like you back," he said, "if you're willing to try." 

"All right," she said. "But don't take it the wrong way--I haven't got a lot of spare time, what with my duties as Head Girl, my studies, and my time with Snape." Was it only in his mind or was there an emphasis on those last words? 

"That's all right," Ron said, giving her a small smile. "I'd--uh--better get going." He shuffled uncomfortably, still trying to figure out what had changed. "Have a good night, Mione. Wait, do you want to study Herbology or something tonight?" he asked hopefully. 

"It's my night for Potions work," she replied, giving him a regretful smile, "but I'll come to the common room tomorrow night, all right?" 

He nodded, feeling quite pleased, his step a little lighter as he headed for Gryffindor Tower, trying to think up more dire predictions for Trelawny. _You will lose an old friend due to Venus in the seventh house,_ he thought with a sigh, seeing Harry and Marion go by, completely engrossed in each other.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione stepped into the workroom and wasn't surprised to hear the familiar drawling, sarcastic voice saying, "Five minutes late, Miss Granger. Your research is interfering with you romantic liaisons with Mister Weasley? Tsk--how utterly tragic." 

"Sorry, sir," she said, taking a peek at her cauldron, sighing to herself. Though the words were meant with no sting--from anyone else, they might have almost been a joke. "And he and I aren't together," she replied, pulling out her notes. "He just wanted to talk, as we haven't in awhile." 

"Yes, research does rather ruin your social life." Another dry proclamation; he was quite fond of them. She reread her notes in preparation, hoping she was ready and that it would work. 

"Can I have the Chimaera venom, sir?" She thought for a moment and added, "And the Grindylow bone powder?" 

"Very good, Miss Granger; you remembered." He sounded actually approving. She had missed that question on the test last year, she recalled. The bone powder negated the acid of the venom. It was so acidic that it would eat through any cauldron it was put in if not buffered down; hence why it was kept in a special, charmed container, as it could not be kept in a jar. 

"I'll also need a Pensieve, sir, as you recall." He went to his office and returned a minute later with the ingredients she had requested, setting the Pensive by her hand. She carefully added the Grindylow bone powder to the Chimaera venom in its special measuring spoon. It fizzed for a moment and turned a dull orange. She put it in another cauldron beside her large cauldron of translucent Forgetfulness Potion. A bit of cordgrass, some squid ink, and a pinch of verbena. She now had Solventus Potion. A quickly accomplished but useful brew discovered by Hagatha DeHexe in the fifteenth century, it was effectively a "blank" that allowed stable infusion of a property or another potion to a pre-existing potion: in most cases, anyhow. Just simply mixing two potions together without any safeguards would probably cause an explosion. 

"All right, sir," she said. "I'm ready to test it." He turned to her, and deliberately walked over to her cauldrons, checking each potion carefully and questioning her thoroughly as to procedures, amounts she had used, and other details. Finally he seemed satisfied that she wouldn't poison herself through her own idiocy and nodded. 

"Give me…ah. Three words, please, sir: ones with distinct opposites? I'm looking to--" 

"I read your idea, Miss Granger," he replied, "so you needn't explain yourself." There was a hint of impatience in his tone. "Very well. Black, cold, night," he rattled off with nary a thought. She looked at him, wondering what he was describing with them. 

"All right." She repeated the words to herself until they were fixed firmly in her mind. Reaching for her wand, she touched it to her temple, searching, and gently drew out the memory of him saying the three words, directing it towards the Pensieve. She quickly checked her memory. There was a faint wisp of the memory remaining, as though it had been years ago instead of mere minutes. That was why merely drawing out terrible memories in a Pensieve and destroying them would not work--there was still a trace to get rid of, and the trace could flare up to a full memory again too easily. 

She touched the tip of her wand to the silvery fluid memory, and took a deep breath. "_Inversus!_" she said clearly, praying furiously that this would work. 

There was a golden gleam in the Pensieve after a few moments. She smiled in satisfaction. "It was 'black, cold, night', right sir?" she asked, noticing the memory becoming clearer as she concentrated on it. He nodded brusquely, stepping forward and gently touching a fingertip to the surface of the liquid. A few seconds as he considered, and he turned to her. 

"That's it," he said, and she could have sworn there was almost a note of warmth. The golden liquid in the Pensieve was apparently indeed the anti-memory of the original. The Inverse Charm turned the object it was cast upon into its direct opposite, and she had thought to try it on a memory. Snape confirmed she had produced the anti-memory, much to her relief. If it was correct, she had produced a memory of him saying, "White, hot, day." She couldn't check the anti-memory herself; else it would enter her memories before she was ready for it and taint the test. 

Holding her hands steady despite her excitement, she carefully drew the anti-memory out of the Pensieve and directed it to the cauldron with the Solventus Potion. This was the sticky part; so far as she knew nobody had ever recorded the use or effect of a memory in a potion, and especially not an anti-memory. 

Giving the Solventus a few stirs to mix the anti-memory in, she got a cupful of the Forgetfulness Potion and added the Solventus to it. The potion was a scintillating white color now. "Cheers, sir," she said jokingly. He smiled a little at that. She drank it, noting with some discomfort that drinking it was like drinking extremely fizzy Coca-Cola, her nose tickling. She hiccuped, and closed her eyes as she felt it moving through her veins. 

If it had worked correctly, on the Muggle principle of polarities and magnetism, the opposites should attract. The old memory should draw the anti-memory, and positive and negative should at least in theory cancel out. The Forgetfulness Potion's design was to get rid of memories, which hopefully the anti-memory would do, as the Forgetfulness Potion had the nasty habit of eliminating a lot more than the undesired memory if given in the concentration needed to do the task. 

The most important effect of the Forgetfulness Potion, though, was that it replaced holes in the memory with new, harmless memories. The concentration of her Forgetfulness Potion was weakened, as she didn't need the powerful kick it took to eliminate memories: only enough strength to replace gaps. That should hopefully take care of it hurting other, safe memories. 

She felt a sudden prickle in her mind, which hopefully meant the memory and anti-memory had attached and cancelled each other. A trickle of warmth, which was probably the Forgetfulness Potion grafting in a new memory, and she opened her eyes, seeing Professor Snape standing there. 

"Well, Miss Granger? What were the three words?" If it had succeeded, she would say something completely different from both the memory and anti-memory. 

She concentrated, and answered, "Grey, warm, parrot." She realized what she had said and sighed in disgust. "Drat." Apparently the first two memories had only partly canceled each other out, leaving her with "grey" and "warm" as halfway between white and black, and cold and hot. The partial cancellation left no holes for the Forgetfulness Potion to fill in. It was a failure. 

"The third one worked," he said, almost kindly. "As far as I know, 'parrot' is completely unrelated to 'night' or 'day'. It often takes years to develop a potion, Miss Granger. Keep faith." 

"Well, one-third a success isn't too bad," she agreed. "I'll just have to work at it more…" She felt a momentary twinge of regret that the evenings spent studying Animagism and spying could have been applied towards this project, and if so, she might have it now. _Still, you're being of use from those nights. It's not like you ignored research to go play pranks,_ she reassured herself. 

She was relieved she had grasped the right memory, never having used a Pensieve before. If she had gotten the wrong one--she shuddered. He might have found her out. As was, he had no clue that Musetta, peregrine falcon and Hermione Granger, aspiring Potions researcher, were one and the same. _Well, why would he imagine it to be me?_ she thought in amusement, cleaning up from the test. _Quiet, responsible, studious Hermione Granger called Musetta, the fickle, flamboyant girl-for-hire?_ She was thankful her mind had come up with that _extremely_ unlikely name. 

She bid him good night, heading for Gryffindor Tower, feeling greatly cheered. Things seemed to be going quite well right now. Ron had tried to reconcile with her, the potion was making advances, and she was helping to save lives by spying with Snape. All in all, not a terrible seventh year thus far, she realized with pleasure. Crookshanks demanded to know how the potion had worked when she reached her room, and she sat down to explain to him, realizing with amusement that conversations with her cat were becoming quite a regular thing. _Just think: ten years ago you'd have considered all this impossible._ She then reached for the parchment she had to translate for Ancient Runes for Friday, feeling quite pleased with herself. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

The next summons from Voldemort was the day after the Christmas holidays began at Hogwarts. For Snape, it was five minutes of impatient waiting whilst Tosca found Musetta, wherever the hell she was. Musetta knew the procedure well by now, so they were at the Malfoy Manor quite quickly. Snape was still cursing angrily over the lost time, though. 

A quick reconnaissance of the house's perimeter revealed that the Death Eaters were in none of the rooms with windows. He mutter a Locating Charm, then said quietly, _They're in the dungeons tonight._ He remembered all too well what had gone on in those dungeons years and years ago. He hoped that they weren't in store for it tonight. 

Landing on the sitting-room windowsill, he said the Fenestration Charm, _Fenestratis Dungeon_, and there was suddenly a view of the dungeons in the window. A Sonorous Charm amplified the noises within enough to let them resonate through the charmed, now one-way, window. They could see and hear the Death Eaters, but blessedly, the reverse was not true. 

He managed to quell the usual twinge of disgust at seeing Voldemort again, and at seeing the Death Eaters groveling over him, remembering how he had been years before. A long tirade from the Dark Lord about how Muggles, Mudbloods, and those who supported them were betraying the wizarding heritage, and Wormtail, whom Snape recognized from the gleam of his silver right hand, eagerly piped up that he would be proud to serve his Lord in the fight. 

Voldemort's thin, lipless mouth turned up in a sneer. "Very good, Wormtail. Always good at ingratiating yourself to the right people, aren't you?" A faint wave of laughter went through the waves of masked and robed Death Eaters. "No, Wormtail, ridding the world of the Muggles is not possible until we kill," he said the word so casually, "those with magic who protect them. I grow weary of killing them off one by one, like the vermin they are. If their protection is gone, our work shall be accomplished with ease. Tell me, Wormtail, my eager pet, who do we need to eliminate?" he purred. "A true servant should always be able to anticipate his master's wishes." 

"Du--Dumbledore, my Lord," Wormtail stuttered. "And Snape--he spied against us." 

"Dumbledore, yessss," he hissed. "Running that school and harboring any freak or Mudblood that comes his way and teaching them magic they are not worthy of. And yet he will not face me. The old man cowers in his ivory tower and tries to deny what is happening--tries to _deny_ this revolution. The old fool, but a powerful and influential old fool indeed: we must destroy him." He paused. 

"And I cannot have my Death Eaters betray us to the Muggle-lovers. Did I not say that to betray me meant your death by my hand when I welcomed you to my ranks? Apparently dear Severus," he sneered the name, "has forgotten his priorities. He is no longer a danger, but I have not forgotten him. If any of you can capture him and bring him to me for his--" an amused tone, "--just reward, you shall be at my right hand, rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Dumbledore I shall have the pleasure of dealing with myself, when our power is great enough." 

Snape couldn't help muttering that his captor's "reward" would likely be a cell in Azkaban and to be forgotten by Voldemort. He knew he was under sentence of death from Voldemort; hearing it again hardly affected him. He had lived with the shadow of death over him for over two years now. 

_You'll be safe at Hogwarts, right?_ Musetta gave him a worried glance. 

_Musetta, there's not been a wizard since Merlin himself who had the power to storm Hogwarts. My prison and my haven, _ he added with a touch of irony. _Now, hush and listen._

"Snape is common Mudblood filth," Malfoy spoke up smoothly. "He was obviously unworthy to serve you, even if he had his uses. It is better he is not here still tainting those who loyally serve you, my Lord." Snape would have rolled his eyes if he were less self-controlled. Once Lucius had found that tasty little morsel about him, he had seized it and never let it go. 

_Mudblood?_ Musetta squeaked, looking sharply at him. True: almost all the wizard world thought he was a pureblood. He had certainly cultivated the impression the best that he could. 

He really didn't feel like explaining himself to a bloody falcon at the minute. _Now now, Musetta. We have work to do!_

The meeting went on for awhile, naming the targets for the next few weeks, Lucius Malfoy reporting upon new recruits. "My son is eager to wear your Mark, my Lord, as soon as he is free from Dumbledore," he said, tones fraught with something near to paternal pride. Crabbe and Goyle echoed the sentiment for their sons. Snape sighed again to be reminded of his failure with those three. Pansy Parkinson was a loss as well--he had confirmed that. 

_Draco won't last five minutes,_ Musetta said confidently. 

_And why is that?_

_He wants everything his way--expects it. No discipline; he can't work with others,_ she replied calmly. _And Voldemort expects discipline and obedience._

_He'll be under Cruciatus within a week after joining,_ he agreed. _ How do you know all this?_ he asked suspiciously. There were times he was convinced Musetta wasn't just a falcon. She seemed too human at times. And too, she had refused to stay in his quarters with Tosca so she could be readily available for missions. Odd, but so long as she was a good partner to him, he really didn't care who or what she was. Besides, he knew Tosca wouldn't have paired him with a double agent for Voldemort or the like, so he was fairly confident. She had handled herself well thus far. 

_You know Hogwarts. Even the kitchen mice know everything going on. Is--is that why you favor him so? To ruin him, as it were?_

_Mostly._ In years before, it had also been to keep his favor up with Lucius Malfoy so that he could rejoin the Death Eaters as a spy if Voldemort should return. After all, a Death Eater would certainly favor the child of another of the brotherhood. That obligation was gone now, however. _Now stop talking, else I'll put a Laryngius Charm on you until we return to Hogwarts!_ he threatened. 

Voldemort dismissed them and Disapparated himself, but a few of the Death Eaters remained. "I hear you have some entertainment for the evening," Avery said smugly to Lucius. Snape's eyes went wide as he remembered what Avery and Malfoy considered "entertainment" at a Death Eater gathering. His muscles knotted tightly in sick frustration as he realized what was likely to happen; and that he could not prevent it. That would give him away and get him killed, which would lose valuable, life-saving information in the future. He knew he couldn't save whoever their victim was tonight, but he burned no less in rage for it. Silently, helplessly, he watched.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
"Indeed." Lucius crossed the dungeon to open the door. Hermione's blood ran cold at the smirk on his face. Draco stood there, holding his wand, with a figure drifting limply beside him in the darkness. Somebody stunned and under _Mobilicorpus_, likely. Draco stepped cautiously into the dungeons, looking rather puzzled, and the unconscious figure bobbing beside him proved to be a pretty blond girl of about sixteen. She was dressed in a school blouse, sweater, and skirt, reminding Hermione of many of her counterparts at Hogwarts. _What do they want with her? Entertainment?_ she thought wildly. 

They put the girl upon a heavy oaken table, Goyle and McNair stepping forward to pin her arms down. Draco looked ready to leave, but his father gestured firmly for him to stay put. Lucius stepped casually up to her and studied the school patch upon her sweater. "Our thanks to the Briarwood Academy for our guest this evening," he said, while the rest of the company snickered. He touched his wand to her forehead, and said, "_Enervate!_" Her eyes fluttered open, fixing immediately upon Lucius' smirking silvery-blond countenance. 

"I don't know who you think you are, but my parents are looking--" she said, eyes wide in terror. 

McNair clamped a rough hand across her mouth, cutting off her protests. Lucius looked at Draco, hooded eyes suddenly lighting up with something close to unholy merriment. "Well, Draco, time for a taste of first blood?" _Draco?_ Hermione's mind felt numb. This wasn't what she had thought--she had thought she'd deal with simple evil killers, not perverse monsters. But…why else would they kidnap a teenage girl and call it "entertainment"? With growing horror, she realized how utterly wrong she had been about what spying entailed. 

It was the first time she had ever seen Draco Malfoy look frightened. His eyes darted wildly around the dungeons, never once resting upon the girl whose muffled shouts had grown more frantic as she slowly realized what Lucius was implying. "Draco," Lucius said impatiently, with a warning tone to his voice. 

Draco stepped forward, and she could see his knees trembling. McNair removed his hand from the girl's mouth, saying with a laugh that he wanted to hear her screams. The girl stared straight at Draco, whimpering pleas for him not to do this. He looked away. 

He froze again, prodded only on by his father saying lazily that he had better prove himself, the threat in the words barely veiled. _Don't do it!_ Hermione silently pleaded, hoping Draco would have the spine to refuse. But quickly he pulled up the girl's skirt and yanked off her underwear as if any hesitation would make him unable to do it. He tried to pry her legs apart, but she kept them firmly clenched, still begging. 

Lucius applied the Imperius Curse, saying in a rather bored tone, "Now, spread your legs, slut. We haven't got all night." She obeyed; fighting it as best she could, tears running down her cheeks at her sheer powerlessness. Hermione let out a slight gasp. There was something obscene about making the girl _assist_ her own rape, but Lucius was looking rather content at the sheer perversity of the idea. Draco carefully avoided looking at or touching the girl, fumbling beneath his robes as Lucius took off the Curse. "Don't want her _too_ willing, do we?" he smirked. 

She wanted to cry out. She wanted to turn and run. But she was frozen in horror, unable to look away. She was as helpless to do anything as the girl on the table now screaming in pain. _That could be me there_, was racing through her brain like a poison. _That could be me too easily. They hate Muggle-borns._ Oh God, she had been so stupid! She had thought she could be a spy, be something grand and glorious, and never become dirtied by the taint of these perverts. She was being proved horrifically wrong right before her eyes. 

Draco finished and stepped back, wiping his lip quickly, but not before Hermione saw the blood on it. He had bit clean through it. _You didn't want to, but how could you?_ she asked silently, horrified. She knew him--he was a petty bully and a whining brat. She could never have imagined Draco Malfoy in depravities like this, though. But then, she hadn't _imagined_ depravities of this sort either. 

Avery stepped forward, took Draco's place, and hit the girl with Cruciatus during the rape, smiling almost blissfully to hear her choked cries of pain as she writhed beneath him. When he finished her off with the Killing Curse after he had taken his turn, she heard cries of protest from the others at missing out on their "fun". 

She felt like she had suddenly been released from her transfixed state. Panicking, horrified, she felt her shape shifting, trying hard to return to its human form in her extreme stress and emotion. _I--I have to go!_ she choked, firmly shoving herself back into falcon form and taking wing, bile rising in her throat. 

She made it to a field a mile or two away, landing roughly as she resumed her human form almost painfully quickly. Collapsing to her hands and knees, ignoring the snow soaking her robes and the cold burning of it against her bare hands, she was violently sick. Shoulders heaving with sobs, she huddled there, wishing to Heaven that she had never heard of Animagism. _Oh God--did Snape do things like that when he was a Death Eater?_ she thought wildly. _Forcing himself on women and killing for amusement…_ She gave another dry heave at the thought of the man she had come to trust and sometimes almost like over the past months doing such things. 

She suddenly heard the light crunch of footsteps behind her as she stared miserably at the snow, stomach finally coming to rest but mind and heart still infinitely sick. "Miss Granger," came the familiar voice, tones now cold and clipped, "we are going back to Hogwarts _now_. You had best start thinking of explaining yourself, and quickly." 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Hermione said nothing while he almost dragged her from the edge of the Forbidden Forest all the way to his quarters. Tersely he barked, "_Incendio_," at the fireplace, obviously noticing her soaked robes and gesturing her impatiently to a chair by the fire. _Can't shout at me if I freeze to death,_ she thought with a nearly hysterical mental giggle. Her brain still felt frozen and numb with the monstrosities she had just witnessed; the additional punishment of what Snape could now do to her barely registering on her consciousness. He briskly cast a _Silencio_ on the room so none would overhear them, even the few who were at Hogwarts for this holiday. 

She realized he was speaking and turned to him, not saying a word. "…damn foolish! What in the hell were you thinking?" 

She raised her eyes to meet his furiously blazing black ones. "Please, sir," she said, the words rasping oddly, "I only wanted to help…" 

"Do you realize that had that happened at a less opportune time you'd have gotten _both_ of us killed? That you deceived me into jeopardizing the safety of one of my own _students_?" 

"Yes, sir." She bit her lip and decided to have out with it. There was no use holding it back. "I--I thought that this was my chance to be more than 'that ugly Mudblood Granger' or 'that bitch that broke the grade curve'. I wanted to prove that I could do something…" She swallowed hard. 

"Damn Gryffindors," he swore, stalking over to her and roughly thrusting a mug of hot tea in her hands. "Drink it. You're not getting away from this by freezing to death," he said grimly. "You wanted some glory. That's it. Much as you decry us, at least a Slytherin would be _honest_ about that ambition instead of trying to make it seem altruistic like you _noble_," here he sneered, "Gryffindors. So please, Miss Granger, no games. Admit it. You wanted glory, correct?" 

"Yes," she admitted faintly, feeling warm again from the tea and the fire. 

"You stupid girl! What the hell did you think spying was? What do you _think_ Death Eater meetings entailed--milling around reading bits of awful, twee poetry we wrote?" he snapped. In other circumstances she might have laughed at that idea. She noticed he included himself as a Death Eater still. _Has he ever forgiven himself?_ she wondered dully. "Don't you realize--damn you, Granger! The last spy Voldemort caught was sent to her father in _pieces_ a week later! You'll never earn glory as a spy, but you're very likely to earn an awful death." He paused for a moment. 

"I saw it," he went on in almost a trance. "There was no time to call for you or Tosca--she was out hunting, and of course I did not know where to find you. Do you realize how powerless you are as a spy, Miss Granger?" Here he paced the room almost nervously, perhaps from the recollection. His voice lowered to a near whisper. "You may only observe--never act. You must weigh your actions--let the victims they've captured die so that you will not be killed in a foolhardy and futile attempt to save them, so that the information to save other lives is still open to you. But it tears at you no less to sit there so powerless, able only to report who they were, if they died well, how much they betrayed…" He sighed. "You play God, Miss Granger, in deciding who must be sacrificed for the good of all, and that is an assuredly heavy and awkward burden." His eyes met hers, looking almost gentle for a moment. "But you know that now, don't you?" he asked quietly. 

She nodded slowly. "But sir," she said, her voice slowly gaining strength, "I--I know how it is now. I'll be prepared for the next time." 

"There will be _no_ next time!" The eyes turned to blazing fury again. "You will not risk your life--" 

Now she dared oppose him. "I have every bit as much right to risk my life to fight that--that _monster_ as you!" 

"I risk my life," he said slowly, "to pay a debt, Miss Granger. Not out of some misguided sentiment." _Lies,_ she thought. _He does this because he knows it's right. The debt was paid long ago for any mistakes he made. The fire burns every bit as bright in him, if not brighter; for he's seen the darkness, and knows it. It's not just a distant shadow to him._

"Sir," she pleaded, "I did well. You said so yourself…" 

"That was before I knew you were an Animagus out of control! Good God, girl, how long have you been one?" 

"Two months, sir. It--well, I just had never seen such a thing," she explained. 

"You'd see much more, and worse," he said flatly, half-turning as if to hide some memory written openly across his face. "I do not think there is a level they would not sink to." She realized that even in attempting to discipline her, the habit cultivated in the laboratory and on missions of treating her more as an equal stayed with him. "That reminds me," he frowned. "_Tosca!_" he shouted. "If you're near, get in here!" 

The white gyrfalcon lazily glided in the window. _Evening, Sev,_ she said cheerfully. 

"Tosca," he said, almost pleasantly. "Would you care to explain your little part in facilitating Miss Granger to act as a spy? She quite easily could have gotten us killed, so I am quite interested to know what you had to do with this!" 

Tosca turned and saw her. _Got caught, did you?_ she said with a sigh. _Gryffindors don't know how to deceive worth a damn, I swear. Very well, Severus; I heard her bemoaning to that cat of hers how useless and lonely she was. Spying gave you a purpose, so I figured she was a bright enough girl to try the same. Made her find your notes, she took a copy of them--_

"You did _what!_" Snape said, turning to Hermione. 

"Somewhat Slytherin of me," she offered a feeble joke, "don't you think?" 

Tosca continued. _She found her way through, I taught her to act falcon-like, and she said she wanted to help you. I figured she'd be a much better partner than I would, and so I introduced her to you._

"Musetta," Snape said, with a wry twist of the lips. "Quite the misnomer." 

_She probably intended that, you lackwit,_ Tosca said dryly. _All right, so the little passager has made a mistake; so did you in joining them years and years ago. Really, Severus, you need to learn to forgive and move on, especially for yourself. She's damn good; you said so yourself._

"I will _not_ risk the life of a child under my care for some delusions of grandeur!" he said through gritted teeth. 

"I am eighteen, Professor," she said, trying to gather a little dignity. "So I am hardly a child. I can make my own decisions." 

"You are still a ward of this school, Miss Granger, and subject to its rules. I could have you expelled with ease. All I need do is visit the Headmaster." Her cheeks drained of blood as she considered whether he was serious. Perhaps he was. 

"If so," she said, lifting her chin and trying to sound brave, "knowing I helped save lives is worth it." 

"Gryffindors," he muttered, making it sound like a foul word. 

"Sir, you think me capable of a complex Memory Erasing Potion. Why do you doubt that if I work on my skills, I could be an equally good spy? After all, drinking a failed potion to test it could as easily cost me my life as a failed mission," she said reasonably. 

"A little less at stake with the potion," Snape said wryly. "This is not a game, Miss Granger. It is very real, very foul, and very dangerous." 

"And I know that now. I know what they're capable of. I--didn't know before. I thought you only…killed the enemy, not…" 

_Rather like you in that aspect, hmm?_ Tosca nearly purred. _You didn't think they did that sort of thing either when you first knew them, did you, Severus?_ Something within her was relieved to hear that. Did that mean he hadn't committed such atrocities? He had killed. That she was certain of. But perhaps he hadn't done such things as she had witnessed. 

"_Enough_, Tosca," he said warningly. 

"Sir?" she asked quietly. "What will happen to Draco? He didn't look like he wanted to…but he did." 

"That will be between Mister Malfoy and myself," he replied with a dismissive tone. "You are not to mention it to him." 

She decided to use another gambit. "If you go spying, I swear I will fly after you," she said grimly. "You need a partner, and I know Tosca will not do it any longer." Tosca nodded. "My motives were foolish, but I genuinely wanted to lend aid. Why should Harry be the only young person capable of anything in this war?" 

"You have not seen the worst, and if you cracked at that, I cannot trust you to maintain yourself in even darker situations." 

She took a deep breath and gave him a challenging look. _Gryffindor courage, Granger_, she thought. "Then show me the worst, Severus." She unconsciously called him by his first name, as she was used to it from her masquerade as Musetta. "Show me the worst," she repeated, her gaze not wavering from his, "and if I can handle it, you'll keep me on and teach me so that I am capable. If I crack," she swallowed hard, "you'll go straight to Dumbledore. Is that agreed?" 

"Miss Granger…" 

"Come now, you Slytherins are fond of bargains. Either way, you win. You either retain the partner you need or you remove me as a risk entirely," she said, rising to her feet, feeling bolder by the moment. "Show me."   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Brown eyes bored into his with no hint of retreat. It was the most insane thing he had ever heard, and somehow also the most sensible. Once again he thought with regret she'd have made a fine Slytherin. "Very well," he said smoothly. One glimpse of the things Death Eaters were capable of would have her shouting and running. He had no intention of going to Dumbledore. She had punished herself quite well enough by knowing the danger she had put them in, and seeing what she had. 

With a resigned sigh, he performed a Summoning Charm, catching the Hypnos Potion as it came flying towards him. After ordering her to drink some, and taking a few swigs of the fiery stuff himself, he reached for her hand. He would not use a Pensieve so that she could accuse him of editing or omitting memories. She gave him a puzzled look as he took her hand in his, noticing idly the calluses of Potions work. _She's not screaming at me touching her at least_, he noticed with something close to relief. After what had happened, he would not be surprised if she automatically assumed he had been involved in such activities. Tosca's running interjections had dispelled that notion; at least. 

He thought of Draco Malfoy for a moment. The boy had done something terrible, indeed, but so too had he when he was little more than a boy. And Malfoy obviously had no taste for a Death Eater's games. Perhaps he was redeemable still. He somehow hoped Draco would seek him out, because he could hardly talk to the boy without revealing his spying role and possibly betraying himself into Voldemort's hands if Draco had no intent of reform. Still, that could be dealt with later; but he had the feeling that Dumbledore had gained a powerful ally in Draco Malfoy this night. 

"Sir?" she asked softly, and he stupidly realized he was still holding her hand in his. Feeling a slight flush in his cheeks of embarrassment, he brought her hand to his forehead and murmured the words of the Binding Spell. Combined with the Hypnos Potion, this would allow her to see into his mind and find the memories. _Foolishness_, he thought again, just as he felt the odd flowing sensation of the Mind-Meld. 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

She was surrounded by mist, unable to see even her own hand in front of her face. It felt like being suffocated or buried alive. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the opaque wall of white, hearing faint whispers in the mist slithering around her body like a slippery eel. "Sasha, _na kukhnyu_!" a young woman's voice called, she startled and wondering what language it was. A voice she recognized as a young Sirius Black sneering and taunting. An angry young Snape, "Would you have cared if he were Slytherin and I was Gryffindor, sir?" 

Suddenly she heard somebody calling to her as the faint echoes of his memories swirled around her, teasing and taunting with mere hints of the story they contained. "Hermione!" She was startled to recognize the voice, and even more startled that he referred to her by her given name. 

"Here!" she shouted, desperate to get out of this choking fog. Fumbling towards where the voice had come from, she gave a shout of surprise as a hand grabbed her sleeve and began pulling her along. 

"Had to go poking around, didn't you?" he said impatiently. "Couldn't just sit and wait for me, oh no. Not you bloody damn nosy Gryffindors!" She faintly recognized that the voice was of a slightly higher pitch and didn't have the icy, biting quality she was used to. 

Once the mist of his memories had thinned to tendrils drifting around, he turned to her. "Welcome," he said, with a wry twist of the lips, "to my mind." She studied him. He was only a little older than she was: tall as she knew him to be but almost willowy, not yet filled out to match his adult height. The hair was even a little longer, the eyes not so cold and haunted, and the lines of care not yet in his face. He was wearing the robes of a Death Eater. 

"All right," she said, giving him a nervous smile. "Where to, sir?" 

"This way." He turned and stalked off. "And keep up, mind you. I've no patience to go find you again." Onward they marched, mist still shrouding most everything around them. So long as she kept his form in sight, she was safe. 

After a time, she was suddenly hit by a blast of icy air and shivered, despite the fact that she was wearing thick woolen winter robes. She looked ahead and saw the gaping maw of a cave, dark and cold. Memory-mist drifted lazily in and out. But it was only in wisps, not the thick cloud they had emerged from. 

"I try not to dwell much upon the memories you seek, so they're pretty far buried," he said with a wry smile, drawing his wand and whispering, "_Lumos!_" He gestured for her to follow him again, into the darkness, and this time he did not have to remind her to stay close by him. 

The whispers of the memories echoed eerily in the cavern. Chambers off to the side glowed with mists of stored memory, some separating from the whole and lazily drifting out, others rejoining the mass. She was aware that they were descending, the path taking a steep pitch down beneath her feet. Twists and turns, keeping eyes fixed on the bright sphere of light atop his wand. Much as he said he didn't come to these obviously deeply buried memories often, he was quite sure-footed. 

"There," he said, finally, pointing. In a chamber off to the side, the mist was pure black. She took an involuntary step back as one serpentine tendril came towards her, the voice of Voldemort coming from it. 

"I cannot tolerate failure, Severus…" The high, hissing tones sent a shudder down her spine. 

"Nasty," he muttered, banishing it back to its fellows. "All right, give me a moment here." He closed his eyes and faced the mist, concentrating intently. Before long, a memory came towards him briskly, like an eager puppy frisking towards its master. He muttered a spell she didn't quite hear, and the memory formed itself into…a stuffed bear. He took hold of it, and studied it. 

"It's a Portkey," he said quietly. "Touch it and you'll be in the memory. Of course, you can only observe what was, not act to change it." 

She smiled humorlessly. "Wasn't that what you were just saying a spy did?" 

"If it gets to be too much, just use the _Finite Incantatum_, and the Mind-Meld will be broken." 

"You mean to show me only one?" she blurted. 

"Hermione, there is much more where that came from," he said with a trace of sadness, indicating the mist hissing with malicious voices. "I will show you the worst, as you asked, but I shall not show you everything. There will be more if you finish with that one. You'll be returned here once it's played out. Do you understand?" 

"Perfectly," she said, reaching for the teddy bear hesitantly, barely touching a fingertip to it before she felt a jerking sensation and blackness.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
When she opened her eyes again, she was standing outside a house, beside a willow tree. They came slinking through the night like shadows, the flat black of their robes blending with the darkness. "Severus!" one hissed when he drew close, and she recognized Lucius Malfoy's voice. 

"Yes?" she felt herself answer, and was shocked to hear Snape's voice. _I'm seeing it as him…_ she realized suddenly. "Is everybody here?" he added, and she felt his heart picking up pace. 

A smirk from Lucius beneath his half-mask. "Indeed they are. Shall we?" Three others drew closer, and Snape's mind supplied that they were Rosier, Lestrange, and Avery. 

"Now," Lucius said, when the five stood together. "Severus and I shall handle Mister Meridius. Simon," he nodded to Avery with a smirk, "I'm sure you'll enjoy the _pleasure_," the word deliberately accented, "of Mrs. Meridius." _Filthy rapist_, Snape thought with a shudder, to Hermione's relief. "Desdemona, Evan, you handle the brats," he said curtly. "Three of them. Make certain you get them all. The Dark Lord was not pleased you almost let the LaFeber girl escape." 

The woman, Desdemona Lestrange, smoothly assured him that all would go well. On the count of three, Lucius burst down the door with a silent Blasting Charm. They headed upstairs in search of the sleeping family. Lucius turned to Snape and smirked as he put his hand on the knob of the bedroom door and turned it. He peered in and gestured Lestrange to it, telling her to wait a moment, and then making Rosier lie in wait at the next door. The next one proved to be the parents. Lucius smirked and opened the door, silently slipping in. Snape followed, eyes involuntarily turning to the couple asleep in each other's arms in their bed. _Business, Severus, business,_ he thought wildly. _They are the enemy. They must be killed._ Still, the humanizing image of the two peacefully asleep together burned into his brain. 

Lucius shouted the Binding Spell, and the others took their cue. Within moments there was a terrified child's shriek of "_Daddy!_" from down the hall. Avery was suddenly with them. 

"Good evening, Mister Meridius," Lucius said smoothly, to the two thoroughly-trussed adults. "You know what to do," he said curtly to Avery. "Don't make your fun take too long." Avery laughed while Lucius roughly grabbed Meridius and used _Mobilicorpus_ to drag him into the corridor. "Pity," he drawled. "No useful information to obtain from you. Does somewhat dampen the occasion." 

One of the children ran into the hallway, dressed in yellow pajamas and clutching a teddy bear. She was probably about four, he realized. "Daddy!" she shrieked, racing for one of the two symbols of safety in her young life. Rosier cursed and leaned out the door after her, taking aim with his wand. 

"You damn brat! _Avada Kedavra!_" he bellowed, and a flash of green light, before Meridius' daughter fell dead, her teddy bear coming to rest by Severus' feet. He stared at it, feeling sick. "Stupid girl," Rosier spat. "Tried to bite me," he laughed. 

Meridius stared in horror down at the remains of his daughter, deaf to the screams of his wife suffering Avery's attentions. He was unaware of Lucius casually saying the Killing Curse, slumping over dead without realizing what had hit him. "Mudbloods," Lucius smirked, leading them out of the house with a swagger to his step once Avery reappeared. "_Morsmordre!_" The Dark Mark floated lazily above the house. "Well, done, gentlemen," he nodded to Lestrange, "and lady. Until next time," he said cheerfully. Snape Disapparated, and…   


~~~~~~~~~~

…she was back in the cavern. Trembling a little in sick horror at what she had seen, but she met the younger Snape's eyes with something close to challenge. "Show me more," she said. The scene had only fueled her rage and determination to fight the evil that Voldermort wanted to spread across the world. 

He mutely turned another memory to an Auror's robe insignia. She grasped it, and fell into a memory of him torturing a captured Auror for information, feeling distaste, but telling himself it was all for the good of Voldemort's cause. She was there, hearing the screams of torture, seeing its effects first hand. There was almost pity in Snape's mind when the Auror whispered his secrets from between lips bleeding from being bit through in effort to keep silence, broken body drawn taut with pain. A touch of his wand, and he said the Killing Curse. It was almost a mercy by that point, and he was almost regretful for such a brave soul to be misguided to, as he thought it then, the wrong side of the war. 

Memory after memory he wordlessly guided her to, she somehow surviving each intact. Rape, torture, slaughter, killing mere children, on the prowl to kill random Muggles for an evening of entertainment…it was a loathsome mural of the life of a Death Eater. Some small part of her was relieved to see that he had kept his involvement from the worse depravities. He killed because he thought they were the enemy tortured if they refused to give the information he sought to help his cause. There was a certain honor to it, however twisted. The abyss hadn't swallowed him and made him a monster as well. 

"One last memory," he said, black eyes directly on hers. "I want you to pay close attention to this one." She nodded, mouth dry. The Memory Portkey assumed the shape of a Death Eater's mask. She reached for it.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
It was a gathering of Death Eaters, and Voldemort was present. He looked slightly more human back then, she noticed, but with the same hellish glowing red eyes. A woman stood before the Dark Lord, trying to restrain her trembling. _Damn. MacIvor's been caught_, he thought with an icy shock. _Careful, Severus, else he'll catch you too…_ This must have been after he turned spy, Hermione realized. 

"Perpetua," Voldemort purred, walking back and forth in front of her. "My dear, what on Earth possessed you to turn against me?" 

Her shoulders straightened, her head lifted proudly. "Because I was never yours. I joined you only to gain your secrets." There was a slight twist of grief and pride within him at that--there was no use her denying it. She had been caught passing on information, but she would die on her feet, not begging on her knees. 

"Very well. You know the price for those we capture spying," he said. 

"I am ready. Kill me," she said defiantly, green eyes flashing in the light. "You may kill me, but you cannot kill my cause." 

"Oh, Perpetua," he sighed. "Death…that's altogether too easy. No, I think for spies and traitors, I shall let your fellows amuse themselves first." The thin lips curved in a malicious smile. "After all, you've betrayed them as well. Why should only I take recompense?" 

Rough hands seized hold of her, ripping at her robes, knocking her into the dirt. What followed had been forever burned into Snape's memory, and now into Hermione's. Despite the rapes that followed, the beatings, the torture, her eyes met Severus', where he stood silent vigil at the back of the crowd while most howled and cheered. _I understand,_ the gaze said. She knew he was a spy, but she did not betray him when asked to name her co-conspirators. _Do nothing; you cannot._

She meant to absolve him of his inaction, but that calm acceptance of her fate, and his inability to save her, was even worse damnation for him. She had not revealed him, not betrayed him, but he had betrayed her in his helplessness. In grief, he wanted to turn his eyes, but in debt owed, he watched, so that he could go to her fiancé and tell him his love had died as proudly and honorably as she had lived. _To love someone like that,_ he thought, _he is a lucky man…_ Even if now he was a bereaved one. 

After Voldemort finally ended the matter and calmly killed her, he ordered her body mutilated and sent back as a warning. The blood-frenzy dissipating, the Death Eaters slinked off, the consequences of betrayal all burned into their minds anew. He was last to leave, taking one last look at her battered body, whispering a prayer, setting his jaw, and Apparating away.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
When she came to, she found herself sitting in Snape's quarters, hand still pressed against his forehead. He opened his eyes and their gazes locked. "Now do you see?" he rasped. 

She nodded, swallowing hard. Being caught meant a grisly death; even simple spying meant seeing horrors no sane mind could even imagine. "I still want to," she said quietly. "There's no honor done to those who…went before," unspoken was the word "died", but it was mutually understood, "if we are all too afraid to take up the banner and march on." She looked at his still somewhat-dazed eyes and thought sadly, _He could use a rather large dose of my Memory Erasing Potion himself._ She had never had any idea of the man behind the black robes and snarls. She had just the barest glimpse now, but it was wildly different from what she had known. 

"Very well, Miss Granger," he said with a sigh. "I will teach you. However, I will stipulate that you must do what I tell you. There will be no disobedience, no seeking glory. I know this game, filthy as it is, and if you are to…_partner_ me, you _will_ listen. One slip-up and it's off." 

"Agreed." That was only fair. He understood this much better than she did, but she was willing--no, _eager_--to learn. She looked at him, sensing that conjuring up the old ghosts of his past left him wanting a little privacy to deal with them. He was trembling and pale, eyes haunted. "Thank you, sir. It's very late, so I had best be going before I'm caught." She turned to go. "Sir?" She turned back. "Would it be asking a bit much to--to work on my potion Monday? That is, if you don't have…plans?" 

He let out a somewhat quivering laugh. "I look forward to it, Miss Granger. Good night." 

Tosca gave her an approving nod as she went out the door. As she closed it behind her, her knees turned to water and she felt she could barely hold her own weight up. She had broken rules of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic, and even challenged a _teacher_. She smiled slightly. _My, how things do change_, she thought. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Hermione lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. While in his mind, she had shielded herself from anything but making it through without flinching--the slightest blanch he would have taken as a sign of weakness and surrender. That wore off quickly as she had made it to her room, and she was hit by what she had seen so hard that she didn't even hear Crookshanks yowling, _Hermione? Are you all right? _

She sat up abruptly, still shivering, despite Warming Charms and multiple blankets. He was a murderer. Her Potions teacher, her mentor, had been a cold-blooded killer when he was barely older than she was now. The images came back, swarming her brain. No, he hadn't raped; he hadn't killed children. But he had stood by and done nothing, a little disconcerted but trying to dismiss it as the fortunes of war until…until what? What had made him come to his senses and go to Professor Dumbledore? 

She felt more frightened and alone than she ever had in her life. Before tonight, before what she had seen and experienced, she had clung to her illusions of the Death Eaters as merely misguided, able to be convinced to the right side. After all, she had reasoned; if Professor Snape had seen the light and come back to the right side, didn't that indicate that most Death Eaters were just…mistaken? 

The security of those illusions had been brutally ripped away; the evil no longer distant and formless. She had been right _there_ with the blood, the screams, and the pain. She knew exactly what they did, and the pleasure they took in it. They weren't misguided, they were _monsters_. And he had been one of them. 

She had worked with Snape these past few months, begun to trust him, almost like him. But the same voice that calmly helped guide her through her potion had shouted the Killing Curse. She had never thought of herself as particularly sheltered, but she was shivering in shock right now, wide-awake in terror of what she had seen. 

How could she face him again without the words of him calmly torturing that Auror ringing in her ears? Perhaps he hadn't been as depraved as the rest, but he had still been there, and willingly executed his duties. Some part of her had secretly believed that he had managed to avoid that, never killed, never caused injury as a Death Eater. Naïve, certainly, but she had hoped. 

Nothing seemed clear right now. Brilliant, sarcastic Snape was a murderer. Irksome, whiny Draco Malfoy was a rapist. Sirius Black had been something close to a bully. And she, the Gryffindor genius, had turned to something darker. Everything was a muddled shade of grey instead of the black and white it had been before, and it was frightening. She felt like she was suddenly drowning in the morass of fear and terror, and nary a lifeline was in sight. 

She still wanted to spy--she wanted to make her days count for something besides the Head Girl badge and perfect NEWTs. That she was determined to do. But did she dare admit it wasn't the Death Eaters she feared half so much now, as she feared the man in whom she would have to place her trust? He had betrayed the Death Eaters; would he betray her? 

_No,_ something said sharply. _He turned back because he realized that his path lead to nothing good._ Perhaps he did have his own peculiar honor, but it made her no less disturbed by what she had seen. If she wished to work with him, either in the laboratory or as a spy, she would have to completely rebuild what she thought she had known about him and start from true foundations. 

Like gathering the pieces of a puzzle, she seized the few tidbits she knew of him. Sirius Black had been unkind to him. He had been a Death Eater. He had killed and tortured, but felt disgust at the excesses of his fellows. He had turned away from the darkness at great risk. He now wanted to defeat Voldemort, no matter the cost to himself. _It's not much to go from_, she thought. She still felt uneasy, trying to reconcile the young Death Eater killing with detachment to the man she had seen with eyes full of self-loathing and pain at the memories of what he was. 

Still a little sick at heart, she tried to sleep, mind filled with the images she had seen that night. She could only go forward, though, not back to the innocent girl she had been. This would definitely take time.   


~~~~~~~~~~

Snape sighed as he awoke the next morning. She was a bloody stubborn idiot; he wasn't surprised if she had gone straight to her room and started screaming hysterically from what she had seen. But she had courage in spades; he'd give her that. Something in him had revolted at stripping away her innocence in such a way, but then he had grimly reminded himself, _We cannot afford to shelter them. Not when they'll be facing such evil in just a short time. They must be prepared._ And she had effectively demanded it. Not that it made him feel any better, or quashed the feeling of self-loathing that always came with the old memories. 

He sat down in an armchair before the fire, staring into the heart of the flames and trying to forget, but the names and faces swam through his mind. _Gerald Meridius. Perpetua MacIvor. Ben Saker…_ They were old deaths, but ones that hurt more with the passage of time as his regrets for his wasted youth grew and grew. 

He was barely aware of the nudging against his legs until he looked down and saw that Hermione's cat--_Miss Granger's cat_, he corrected himself. In his mind last night he had called her Hermione, but she was yet his student. Well, whatever he would call her, "damn stubborn Gryffindor" yet being foremost to mind at the moment, her cat was here obviously trying to get his attention. 

"Yes?" he said, trying not to sound impatient. "How did you get in?" 

_I let him in,_ Tosca volunteered, landing on the perch by his elbow. 

"Crookshanks, is it?" he said, staring down at the ginger-furred beast, noticing he was a somewhat pug-faced, smug-looking thing, with strangely bowed legs. 

The cat noticed the scrutiny and said in a rather abashed tone, _Hermione has an odd fondness for the…rejects of the world. Yes, I'm Crookshanks._

"I gather she did not pass a pleasant night," he dryly understated. 

_She sat awake for quite some time,_ Crookshanks agreed. _She's determined to go through with it, and if you don't mind my saying so, it's rather stupid to keep thinking you can put her off. Once she takes to something, she does it all the way._

He smiled a little. "What was it her fourth year…with the house elf liberation movement?" He tried to remember the acronym. "She certainly took to that with a vengeance," he smiled wearily. 

_SPEW,_ Tosca spoke up, laughing. _I remember that! What a mess._

Crookshanks pointedly cleared his throat and continued. _Anyhow--do you mind if I call you Severus? You're not my professor; that's for certain. So, Severus, get used to her being around. She's not giving up on you, though she's going to tread a little more cautiously. I don't know exactly what you showed her, but she seems to have aged years overnight._

"Tread more cautiously? As well she should." He shook his head. "Idealism without caution is what gets people killed." His voice dropped low in remembrance. "She has that--or _had_ it." 

_Yes, well,_ Tosca said. _It was the girl's choice, Severus. You can't blame yourself for showing her._

_She doesn't hold it against you for showing her,_ Crookshanks agreed, collapsing in a heap on the rug in front of the fire, looking quite at home. _She's just…it's that youthful naïveté of thinking professors are really nothing less than perfect. She knew you had been with the Death Eaters, but I don't think she even remotely thought of what they--or you--had done. She knows now, so this is your fresh start with her. Don't waste it,_ he said rather haughtily. 

_About time,_ Tosca added dryly. _He's so convinced he can't let anybody know who or what he was. Well, Sev, here's your chance to prove yourself wrong. She knows, and she hasn't run screaming in fear off to the next shire._

"What is this?" he asked impatiently. "An advice session from bloody _animals_?" 

Tosca would have smirked if she had lips, he was sure. _Well, humans certainly haven't applied themselves to solving your problems since you don't let them near you. We're the best you've got. Get used to it._

He muttered something rather foul. "I had no intention of treating her any differently," he said defensively, feeling like a small boy being lectured by his headmaster. "Now, Crookshanks, thank you." 

The cat padded towards the door, calling a flippant, _You're welcome,_ over his shoulder. He shut the door behind the cat, startled to hear flapping wings behind him and Tosca calling a greeting. 

Draco Malfoy's eagle owl, Icarus, perched on the back of his favorite armchair, looking exhausted after a long flight from Malfoy Manor. _Master Snape, I have a message,_ he hooted. 

Snape retrieved the letter from Icarus' leg and idly gestured the tired bird over to the table, conjuring some water. Icarus gratefully drank and filched a biscuit from the plate, messily eating while Snape broke the seal and opened the scroll. _Told me to deliver it as fast as I possibly could,_ the owl said through a full mouth. 

He scanned briefly, noticing the messy handwriting was even worse than usual, as though Draco had written with a very shaky hand. 

_

Professor Snape,

  
My father is sending me back from the holidays early, since he was called away to…well, I won't say here. Mother really doesn't want me around, so I will be back to Hogwarts tomorrow. _

Something occurred over the holiday that I must speak with you about, urgently. Please don't reply, sir: I don't want Father or Mother knowing I wrote this. I will come and see you when I am back. 

Draco Malfoy

Did he dare admit relief swept over him at the note? Obviously young Malfoy was referring to what had happened the night before. He could save another of the Slytherins, thank God. 

He looked at Icarus. "How was he when he sent you?" 

_Oh, in a state, sir_, Icarus said, shaking his head. _Woke up screaming this morning, and he was jumpy as a grasshopper. Shaking like a leaf, and his eyes--well, if I never see that look again, I won't be too put out. My guess is that something happened last night. I was hunting, but Mister Malfoy had one of his--ah--gatherings._

"Thank you, Icarus," he said sincerely. Altogether too bloody bad that Draco couldn't understand Icarus, or he could have had the owl take back a message to relay orally. "Keep an eye on him, and I will see you again tomorrow when he returns." 

Icarus gave a hoot of acknowledgment and took wing, heading out the window. He turned back to Tosca. 

_What happened?_ the gyrfalcon asked, regarding him intently. _Young Draco found being a junior Death Eater not to his taste? I'm surprised._ She knew as well as he did how Draco Malfoy was. But she hadn't seen him last night. Snape knew how the boy must feel--he felt the self-disgust at his weakness in not resisting the evil nearly daily. 

Wearily, he told her. She wasn't surprised, having seen some of the Death Eater's gatherings, but expressed hope that this would perhaps turn the Malfoy heir to a staunch ally. Considering the son of his top Death Eater was the closest Voldemort had to an heir of his own, this would be quite a loss to him. 

He reached for the latest edition of the potions journals delivered that month, taking his mind from Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy to the simple, uncluttered world of simmering cauldrons.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
She was down in the dungeons later that morning, trying to refine the Solventus Potion, figuring that perhaps the chemical interaction of one of its ingredients had reduced the potency of the anti-memory. The trouble was that there was nothing written upon the properties of a Pensieved memory's inverse. As far as she knew, she was the first to use the Inverse Charm in such a manner, so the matter was largely touch-and-go, unfortunately. She had drawn out the memory of him saying "Grey, warm, parrot" and inverted it, experimenting with the chemical properties of the anti-memory. She couldn't just create a new Solventus out of the blue and test it; it was more likely to poison her than anything else. 

"Good morning, Miss Granger," came the quiet voice behind her. She spun so quickly that she nearly knocked over her cauldron. She hadn't expected him this morning at all: not until Monday, for that matter! 

She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that he was a changed man. _Give him a fair chance, Granger, now that you know where he's been._ "Good morning, sir." 

He seemed a bit taken aback that she didn't seem afraid. There was actually a tentative hint of a smile on his lips for a moment. "How is the potion coming along?" 

"I'm trying to figure out the properties of the anti-memory so I know what I can safely react it with," she sighed. "The composition of a Pensieved memory is known, but I'm not sure about its inverse." 

"Keep at it," he nodded. "You've made good progress." The words from Snape were becoming a bit more familiar. He was sparing in his praise, which meant she valued it all the more when he did dispense it. 

They worked over their cauldrons in the familiar routine, he replying he was making a fresh batch of Veritaserum at the request of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Janney. She was sure he remembered what the Death Eaters had used the potion for. "Sir?" she said. "I need some sea cucumber gelatin. I think it's in your office?" Another fragile ingredient, sea cucumber gelatin needed to be kept in a pressurized container; much as the creatures it came from were under pressure in the deep sea. Otherwise it would basically turn into a sticky liquid. 

He actually chuckled slightly. "Fourth shelf, eighth row, front jar," he said. "Black jar. I trust you won't filch anything this time?" 

"No, sir," she assured, raising her eyebrows a little at his turned back. It was gracefully said: he would trust her. He had to, if they were to spy together. She went to his office and retrieved the sea cucumber gelatin, saying a quick greeting to Tosca. 

Setting the heavy jar down by her cauldron, she peered over at the Veritaserum in his cauldron. It was in a smoky blue crystalline form now. He added dragon's blood gradually and it turned to a clear liquid. She decided to venture something bothering her. "Sir? Aren't we required to--that is--shouldn't the authorities be informed about that girl?" _And Draco?_ was the unspoken continuation. 

"I have already spoken to Headmaster Dumbledore about the girl," he said quietly, "and young Malfoy. Don't get above yourself, Miss Granger. You don't know the game yet. Before you go and tear off on him, Draco Malfoy is returning to Hogwarts tomorrow." 

_Tomorrow?_ she stared at him. How could she stand to pass him in the hallways, eat at the same table with him, as inevitably happened at Christmas? A boy who had raped an innocent girl and watched her be killed? 

"And before you get into a righteous Gryffindor huff," he continued in a voice almost too low to be heard, "I received a note from him this morning, and it indicated that he will be our ally from now on, Miss Granger." 

She quietly reproached herself. If she was going to give Snape a second chance, she owed Draco that. Not that it would be easy considering how he had been to her over their years at Hogwarts. "Are you expecting me," she said, unable to keep from a little sarcasm, "to be his _friend_?" 

"No, Miss Granger; that would be quite suspicious, and would also prompt explanation of how you know his situation, which quite frankly is none of his business right now. I intend for him to finish his time here acting as he has for the past years. I would ask, however, that you not be…hostile towards him. His owl informs me that he is quite the wreck this morning." 

"Yes, sir," she said. This gave her much more to think about. They turned back to their potions then, with no need for further speech: the master and apprentice hard at work. 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

The next afternoon, Snape was carefully bottling the Veritaserum and labeling the bottles in his neat, precise hand. Janney intended to introduce the students to the dangers of Veritaserum after the holidays. He smiled a little sadly, pouring another bottle and carefully putting a stopper to it. The lessons since Voldemort's return had grown increasingly more practical, in preparation for the students to be in the thick of the battle, rather than the theoretical slant they had possessed before. 

He was being pushed to teach fourth years complex Healing Potions now, whereas before he would have given them a simple Erasing Potion or the like. All the professors were being pushed, though, to arm the students with what they would need in just a few short years out in the world, taking less care than usual of how the students felt. He had Madame Pomfrey constantly after him to make Calming Concoctions, as her supply was perpetually low with students cracking under the stress of the load suddenly deposited upon them. These were dark times for Hogwarts, indeed. 

He couldn't help but be concerned sometimes if those slender, childish shoulders weren't too frail for the burden forced upon them in these dismal times. In forcing them to grow so quickly, how would they affect the world in twenty years, perhaps? _If we don't_, he reminded himself grimly, _in twenty years there will be no world for us to worry about. We all pay the price for our freedoms. In sweat, tears, and blood if need be._

He finished bottling the Veritaserum, just as there was a quiet knock on the door. "Come in, Miss Granger," he said impatiently. She still persisted in that odd habit after three months of work. 

The door creaked open, and the quiet swish of a student's robes penetrated the silence. He finally looked up and saw silver-blond hair rather than brown. Draco Malfoy. 

He decided to play initially as though he did not know what the boy wanted to tell. _Dare I tell him?_ he thought. _If I'm wrong and this is a ruse to draw me in to gain information for the Death Eaters, if I reveal myself as a spy…_ It would cost both Hermione and himself their lives. 

Wary blue eyes studied him as Draco sat across from him, looking for all the world like the contrite schoolboy he had never been. He was paler than usual, and his gaze started darting around nervously. 

He smiled humorlessly as Draco cleared his throat and began in a wavering voice, "You should put me under Veritaserum, sir." Everybody knew not to trust a Slytherin. True: the use of Veritaserum was highly regulated. But he was sure Dumbledore would be able to defend it to the Ministry with the gain of a powerful ally, and to be quite frank, the rules had grown more lax in these times. 

Wordlessly he handed young Draco a tiny crystal bottle. The boy drank it and settled back. "It's now in effect," Snape told him calmly. "You should be feeling a slight tingle right about now--ah, that was it? You do realize you won't be able to lie. Very well, Mister Malfoy. Please tell me what it is you wished to." 

"Tw--two nights ago, sir, my father," he swallowed hard. "You know that the Death Eaters meet at our house a lot." 

"I was there twenty years ago," Snape observed dryly. "Certainly." 

"Then you know what sort of things they--do." Snape nodded, trying to soften his gaze a little so as not to frighten the boy right then. "Avery and Father captured a Muggle girl earlier that day. He said they were going to have some fun with her that evening at the gathering." He looked distinctly ill, huddling down into his robes and shivering at the memory. Snape cast a surreptitious Warming Charm in the room. 

"I--I thought that they'd play around a little, like they did with those Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup a few years back," Draco whispered. "Father's never let me come near the meetings, of course. He said if I was caught there before I was of age, he'd let the Dark Lord deal with me himself." 

Snape thought that Voldemort would be pleased with such youthful eagerness to join rather than to punish it, but refrained from saying so. "But he told me to bring the girl down that night and take my first taste of the brotherhood." He swallowed hard, eyes now on his hands firmly clasped and in his lap. "So I did. And Father told me to…to…" He looked up, a hell of torment in his eyes as they met Snape's. "I _raped_ that girl," he said, voice cracking and then fading. "Because I'm weak. Father threatened me and I obeyed." He smiled humorlessly. "The good, obedient son I've always been, of course." He closed his eyes for a moment. 

"She was begging me not to, but I did. Then Avery took his turn. He killed her," he said softly. "They used all three of the Unforgivables on her, sir. And I stood by and did nothing." He bit his lip, and Snape noticed it was still raw and scabbed from where he had bit it clean through two nights before. A fresh trickle flowed from the wound now, but Draco idly wiped at it, taking no notice of it beside that. "Father came up to my room that night. I spent half an hour in the shower, trying to scrub it off of me. He said--" shoulders shuddering in a choked sob, "--that it would get easier with time. He was _proud_ of me, Professor." 

"Does sound very much like Lucius," he agreed quietly. "So what do you propose to do?" 

"I figured I should talk to you, sir," he said, getting the words out. "I could hardly go to Headmaster Dumbledore and say, 'Hullo sir, I raped some Muggle girl and saw all three Unforgivables used. So how has your holiday been?' He wouldn't understand…" His voice trailed off as more frustrated and hurt sobs wracked his slender body. 

"The Headmaster understands far better than you may think. He was the one I went to," Snape said, faintly uncomfortable with this. It was not in his nature to be comforting, but sarcasm was the worst thing right here. The best he could do was sit and hear the story out without judgment or interruption. He knew firsthand that anything halting blurting out the whole sordid mess could prevent its telling entirely. "I was farther down that path than you, and he still saw something in me worth saving." 

"Still, sir, I thought that it might be best to talk to you, since you've…been there." 

Snape nodded. "You did well to do that. Am I correct, then, in assuming you have come to tell me that you do not intend to join the Death Eaters come summer?" 

A vehement shake of the head. "No, no, no," Draco moaned, biting his lip again. Snape had noticed through the years that it was quite a habit with the boy. "I'd die first, sir. I--I didn't _know_ what they did. I thought they were out to get rid of Muggles and Mudbloods, and you know I was raised to believe that they were evil so much that I believed it. I didn't know they did," voice lowering to a near whisper, "things like _that_. I don't know if Muggles and Mudbloods are inferior or what now, but I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." 

He was reminded of Hermione Granger's innocence in the matter as well and quietly sighed to himself. Again the burden was being thrust upon young and probably quite unready shoulders. "Very well. The way that I see it, Mister Malfoy, is that you have two options at this juncture." 

He held up two fingers and ticked the first off, looking past his hand to where Draco was listening intently, looking like a drowning man just thrown a lifeline. "First, you could return and take the Mark. Use it as I did and spy for the forces of Light." 

"I could maybe do that before, sir, but not now. I can't go back," Draco said earnestly, eyes wide. "I can't pretend I'm enjoying that, or having to do it again. I'm no Gryffindor," he said with faint distaste, "to have the courage." He realized Draco was also referring to his complying with his father's wishes that night. 

"No. You are Slytherin, and despite what others will tell you, there is pride to be had in it. Yes, a Slytherin will do what it takes to survive, even if it is distasteful. We are not ones for noble sacrifices as the Gryffindors are. But we survive to fight again and contribute more than a simple martyrdom." 

"Still, sir, I can't act loyal. What's my second option?" 

"Following the end of the school year, you will remain at Hogwarts," he said bluntly. "Let me explain precisely what that means, as I have been living it for over two years now. You cannot leave the grounds except under the influence of Polyjuice Potion, and that' is effective for such a short time as to be nearly useless. If you take one step outside the wards, they will hunt you down and kill you. This is a marvelous, safe sanctuary, but a prison as well." 

Draco smiled shakily. "My father said, you know, that if anyone could come here and kill you, they'd be honored beyond their dreams. I thought of it," he admitted. "Before I knew. But Father prevented me, saying that killing you would be my own suicide, and it would be a cell in Azkaban. I was too _valuable_ to throw away like that." 

Snape wasn't surprised. "You will have to stay here until it ends," he said quietly. "One way or another." 

"I understand," Draco said, glancing at him. "Perhaps I could learn to…teach or something of the sort?" he asked hopefully. "So that I have something to do? Not to be ungrateful for the safety offered, but if I have nothing to do here year after year, I _will_ go mad, and then I'm of positively no use." 

"I'll consider it, but first you must get through this year. Now, you will have to act as though nothing has occurred. Until you finish here, your father could come here and remove you from the premises, and there's not a damned thing we could do to stop him. If he thinks anything amiss, you know that is precisely what he'll do. So I will need you to act your usual self." 

Draco gave a self-deprecating laugh. "One spoiled, self-centered Malfoy heir. Certainly: at least there are no holidays I need to spend at home between now and term's end, so I won't have to possibly go through it again." He looked at Snape. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. 

Snape said nothing to the thanks, knowing any reply would embarrass them both. "Mister Malfoy, please do be advised I will inform the Headmaster of your decision." There was a flash of fear and disgust in Draco's eyes, which he quickly moved to dispel. "I will not, however, inform him of the circumstances. Those are strictly between yourself and I, as I am your Head of House." Draco nodded. 

"Though I do believe perhaps you and I should chat more often," Snape suggested subtly. "After all, it's very hard to keep my eye on all of the Slytherins when I'm trying to go through all those disgraceful exams from the Gryffindors." Draco realized that Snape had suggested he spy on his fellow Slytherins and gave a bit of a smirk. "I do believe you shall be telling your friends that your Potions grade has taken a slide and that I demand remedial lessons." 

"How's your schedule?" 

"Thursday evenings?" 

"That'll do, sir. I'll keep my eyes open, be assured." He hesitated a moment, but pressed on. "Does it ever go away, sir?" 

"Does what go away?" 

"The urge to go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower," Draco said flatly. 

"It fades," Snape said honestly. "But I can say after twenty years it has yet to die." 

Draco gave a defeated sigh. "I supposed not. Erm--I suppose I had best stay here until this Veritaserum wears off. Don't want Crabbe and Goyle asking me what I've been up to…" 

Snape grinned to himself. "You may go. That was a Wakefulness Potion, not Veritaserum." 

"Sir?" He sounded confused. 

"Mister Malfoy," he said, "if you had the courage to come and tell me all this and risk my calling out the Aurors to have you hauled to Azkaban, is it not the least I could do to trust that you would tell me the whole truth and nothing but?" 

Draco looked positively shocked at the very Slytherin maneuver, and quite surprised at the trust. Slytherins were never trusted. _I do know my Slytherins,_ he thought with equal parts pride and sadness. He remembered long ago, he had demanded to be dosed with Veritaserum for his confession to Dumbledore, sure that the old man would believe nothing he said otherwise. _I am the only one who would dare to trust Slytherins. Whether it be my folly or not._

Young Malfoy left the dungeons, and Snape returned to his work on labeling the potions for the day, nodding in satisfaction. He could trust the boy. After the last bottle was done, he headed for Dumbledore's office, half-wondering if the nearly clairvoyant old man wouldn't know already. He had to admit to a small frisson of satisfaction. A blow had been struck to Voldemort, even if the Dark Lord didn't know it. Perhaps there _were_ those among the students who were ready to find their weapons and fight. It remained only to find them, but he was certain that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were in that group. "Sassafras," he spoke the password, and went into Dumbledore's office to see the Headmaster beaming at him. 

"Quite a splendid job, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully. Snape merely shook his head and wondered yet again how on Earth Dumbledore just knew these things. 


	20. Chapter Twenty

Christmas passed quietly at Hogwarts, with Hermione's parents sending her gifts from Milan, where they were taking their second honeymoon at Hermione's urging. Ron had given her a new wizard chess set, she returning the favor by giving him tickets to a Chudley Cannons game. Harry was still wrapped up in Marion Rhys, giddily in love, and practically ignoring both she and Ron. 

Christmas Eve, after Draco Malfoy had gotten back, she had seen him sitting silently in his chair around the one table to house the few students remaining at Hogwarts. He said nothing, merely staring down at his food and eating with no obvious thought or pleasure, though the tiny Christmas feast was indeed a delight. 

She of course said nothing to him or acted any differently from the disdain she had shown his former, arrogant self. She doubted he even knew that Snape had known what had happened, let alone know that she was also in on the secret. She wasn't about the let that be known; she could imagine the sarcastic tones of Snape saying that if she couldn't even hide that, how on Earth could ever be a successful spy in a world full of those who might be her enemy? 

Something within her was repulsed by Draco's actions that night, but the other part of her pitied him. She too understood the rude slap of awakening to the ugly reality of the Death Eaters. Draco hadn't seen that trap until it was too late, and he was in the untenable position of compliance or a grisly death. That didn't excuse what he had done, of course. _Nothing does,_ she thought sadly. She saw the face of the nameless girl from Briarwood Academy in her dreams. Though she had to admit that he was more use alive than dead. It was a cruel position to be in, but there was really no other stance that the Death Eaters took besides perversities and cruelties of the worst sort. 

The rest of the table seemed to sense Draco's intense desire for silence and privacy, and thus for the most part overlooked him. All in all, it was a very awkward meal for Snape, herself and Draco, all three carrying the weight of heavy, loathsome secrets. 

She was in the library now three days before New Year, determined to follow up on her idea that she should learn about the true man that Snape was. _And to learn about that,_ she reasoned, _I should start with him as a boy._ She of course couldn't sidle into Headmaster Dumbledore's office and say casually, "So, sir, please tell me Severus Snape's life story. Omit nothing." She'd have to explain her sudden interest in Snape, which would precipitate explanation of the whole mess. She was in no mood for admitting the rather illegal things she had done to Dumbledore, especially with only six months until graduation. She didn't know if the kindly old wizard would expel her or not, but if Snape wasn't going to reveal her, she wouldn't take her chances. 

She headed for a long, dusty shelf housing the massive bulk of a thousand years of Hogwarts history. Unfortunately, the end of the shelf she was at concerned the yearbooks of the tenth century, not the twentieth. She noted with interest passing the sixteenth century: within _those_ volumes were the years at Hogwarts of the notorious witch and queen, Anne Boleyn, transferred from Beauxbatons her fourth year. _No time for that right now,_ she chided herself. _You can dwell on that later!_

Finally she found them, knowing that Snape had been in the class of James Potter, graduating in June of 1978. Moving her fingertips back seven years gently over rich, leather-bound spines, she grasped hold of the 1971-1972 volume and sat down, back against the bookshelf, yearbook in her lap. 

She turned directly to the pictures of the first years, and smiled a little to see James Potter giving her a wide, boyish grin and a wave, looking so much like Harry. Turning to the next page, she thought at first he wasn't there. 

Then a form moved into the space labeled for one Severus A. Snape. He was a tall, skinny boy; face still childishly soft, with black eyes looking almost hopefully back at her. He self-consciously straightened his faded and patched robes, expression somewhere between a shy smile and a worried frown. _Second-hand robes? We always thought he was rich,_ she thought. _Rich and pure-blood, as all Slytherins are._ She recalled with a shudder Lucius denouncing him as a Mudblood that night at the gathering. He had yet to explain it, and though she was dying of curiosity to hear about it, he had made it clear he didn't want to discuss it. 

He gave her a shy wave, then grimaced and blushed in embarrassment at his obviously old robes. She turned the pages, seeing very little of him. The book was filled with images of people like Sirius Black, James Potter, and the lively crowd. She noticed pictures of a young Snape, and interestingly enough, a young Remus Lupin, lurking on the fringes. _Those two are quite similar,_ she realized sadly. _Loners, outcasts…the werewolf and the poor Muggle-born in Slytherin? No wonder he had no friends, especially since the other houses would have nothing to do with him as a Slytherin._ She winced to acknowledge that truth. _Professor Lupin just had a better crowd…what if?_ She shook her head. It was no use her pondering what might have been for Snape. 

Carefully she flipped through the rest of that book, noticing Lucius Malfoy as a smug and arrogant third year and grimacing to herself. She reached for the next volume. In Snape's individual portrait, his robes were obviously new. Still, there was a sigh and a slump of the shoulders as the other portraits on the page were obviously engaged in conversation, while he sat alone. Glumly the portrait-Snape picked up a book and began reading, pretending not to notice. 

He had made the Slytherin house Quidditch team his third year as a Beater, she discovered, seeing the reference beneath his very solitary and studious portrait. She turned to the section on Quidditch and saw a picture of the house teams first. James Potter had been a Gryffindor Chaser, while Sirius Black had been a Beater. She looked at the Slytherin team portrait and saw he looked full of pride in his silver-and-green uniform, blushing to the tips of his ears and dusting an imaginary speck of grime off his trousers. His hair was neatly bound back and he held his broomstick in hand, actually smiling. Until Lucius Malfoy, the team Seeker, smirked, leaned over, and whispered something to him. His face fell and he kicked at a clod of dirt on the ground, looking angry. Seeing a picture of the Gryffindor/Slytherin match that year, she noticed that beyond the fact that Snape and Black were hitting Bludgers towards each other with all their might, that Snape was quite good, actually. _He never gives any indication. Only time I've ever seen him on a broomstick was the time he refereed in my first year._

The last few years produced such scenes as Black planting a Dungbomb in Snape's cauldron during a Potions picture, and the Potions teacher quietly chuckling at the puce-colored mess dripping all over an irate Snape in the fourth year. _No wonder he doesn't tolerant hijinks in class._ And there was a familiar, black-clad figure stalking out of the Yule Ball in the volume of his fifth year while happy couples danced on. She noticed a girl looking after his departure sadly. Flipping through the pages, she identified her as Aislinn Astolat, a Slytherin in his year. She gave a smile, tucking a stray wisp of russet hair behind her ear. _She liked him, perhaps?_

By his seventh year, he was outright scowling at the camera while its caption announced that he was attending Russia's Vladivostok University for the Magical Arts after having graduated with honors, and particular distinction in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Transfiguration. The seventeen-year-old Snape pulled out his wand and hexed the picture so that an opaque fog covered it from view. She knew VUMA was distinguished for Potions in particular--it must have been where he picked up more of his skills. Perhaps also he had learned the labeling system of his jars there--was it Cyrillic? 

She closed the book with a sigh, returning it and its fellows to the shelf, feeling like she hadn't learned very much, or at the very least, that what she had learned had produced twice as many questions as it answered. She hadn't come to this thinking that it seriously would be a fountain of all knowledge towards his past, but she somehow had hoped she might find something enlightening. 

Still, she knew that he had been too poor to buy any better robes than used, at least his first year. Even in later pictures, though, his books looked battered and second-hand. Poor, Mudblood, and Slytherin: a very bad combination. He had been a Quidditch player of some skill, helping Slytherin to the Quidditch Cup his third, fifth, and sixth years. Lucius Malfoy apparently delighted in squashing whatever small joys Snape had found in his years at Hogwarts. One of his fellow Slytherins had apparently at least given a damn whether he lived or died--Aislinn. And Sirius Black had been cruel to him. 

She remembered hearing him mock Snape in years past, while Ron and Harry laughed at it. Secretly she had thought such schoolboy tactics as calling Snape a "greasy git" were…well, _schoolboy_ tactics, quite literally; not for a fully-grown man of nearly forty. Apparently his sense of humor had also run to picking on Snape for some reason, and to judge from the picture of the Potions class, he had been largely indulged in his pranks. Harry had told her about the teachers laughing in the Three Broomsticks in their third year about the pranks Black and James Potter had used to play. _Oh, like the time he almost killed Snape at the Shrieking Shack? Didn't they see how Black hurt Snape, or were they too blind being proud of their noble and funny Gryffindors to notice one desperately lonely boy?_ She paused after the angry thought with the crashing realization, _I'm sounding like a bitter Slytherin myself._

Truthfully, seeing Gryffindor from a slightly less biased view, she wasn't sure she was exactly proud to be one sometimes. Her attempted "Gryffindor courage" had almost killed herself and Snape, and the Gryffindors took more than a little pleasure in torturing Slytherins, more so than Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. The two had always been intense rivals, but the Slytherins seemed to be the perpetual denizens of evil, while the Gryffindors who got their jollies off a Slytherin's humiliation were chuckled over and no more. _Whose side are you on?_

She didn't know any longer. Something in her had changed irrevocably since the year had begun. Of course she would still cheer her house to win the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup. She just didn't know if she could be proud of what Gryffindor stood for: thoughtlessness and recklessness, to her mind. _Perhaps it's not too late,_ she thought, _to save Malfoy…_ She suddenly had a greater sympathy with him, realizing that while there had been nothing like the magnitude of Sirius Black's torment of Snape, and that Malfoy was honestly a brat unlike Snape, she had never stopped to consider there was more to him than being the eager Malfoy heir. 

She sighed and headed out of the library, having quite a lot to turn over in her mind at the moment. Childish dreams had now been tarnished, and a new, darker view of the world was opened to her eyes. She was indeed seeing quite a bit of the seamy underbelly of things this year. 

Quietly she headed for the workroom to find some solace in the working on her potion, where there was none of the darkness to trouble her. Henbane was henbane, whether Severus Snape was a greasy git or a misunderstood loner. She turned thoughtfully to her notes, where she continued analyzing the properties of the anti-memory, barely aware of him at work on the Lionheart Potion. 

These sessions had moved far beyond him merely supervising her work: that she found was particularly pleasant. Since the night at Malfoy Manor, he seemed to trust her even a little more, and sneered about her being a Gryffindor much less. Even when he did now, there wasn't much malice to it. Perhaps he was finally discovering she was more than a Gryffindor, as she was learning he was more than Slytherin. 

She was close: she could feel it. As soon as she had it figured out, she could make a Solventus that would merely be a solvent for the anti-memory instead of reacting with it and diluting its power. It was just a laborious process testing for various properties and compounds in the anti-memory. 

Snape had already told her that he wanted to work intensely with her tomorrow on focusing herself into her falcon body so that she was under enough control to lessen the risk of her reverting to her human self due to high emotion. It was a good idea to do that now, certainly, while almost nobody was at Hogwarts to catch him or her or notice them missing for the afternoon. 

For now, though, there was the potion. Idly she added extract of hedgehog spine to a pinch of anti-memory. A memory reacted with the substance, but she noted no reaction here. So far, it seemed that everything that reacted with a Pensieved memory didn't react with the anti-memory, which was to be expected from an inversion. She just needed to discover what _did_ react, so as not to use it in the new Solventus. Another month, perhaps, and she had the feeling she'd have it. 

"You didn't tell Draco about…" she broke off. He turned from his cauldron, raising an eyebrow. 

"No, Miss Granger. I hardly saw need, as he confessed himself without my having to prompt it with my knowledge. And he hardly needs to know at this juncture," he added with an air of finality. He nodded towards her mass of flasks and such for testing. "How goes it?" 

"I think so far that the best Solventus I've found thus far would be the Chimaera venom, but to use a solution with Fetch feather powder than powdered Grindylow bone as a buffer. The Grindylow bone powder's so powerful that it's easy to overdo it, and that's perhaps what diluted the strength last time," she said thoughtfully. "The Fetch feather is finer and more laborious work, but much easier to get correct, in the end." 

He nodded, idly brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "However, Fetch feather does negate the effects of squid ink," he pointed out, "and that is another vital component of Solventus." 

She frowned, searching her memory. She had a book on hand listing the effects of Potions ingredients and what could be substituted for them, but she didn't want to turn to it right now. She wanted to show that she knew. "Arctic seawater?" 

"Perhaps," he said dismissively. He was never willing to simply say "Yes" when she questioned him in that manner, wanting her to find the answer for herself. He was still determined to not do the work for her, which she was grateful for. However, a "perhaps" was as good as a "yes". If it were a hare-brained idea, he'd have said so. She smiled in satisfaction, both at the correct answer and the fact that she had figured out his attitude in the laboratory quite well. 

It truly had been a good idea to do this project. He had given her a high recommendation on her application to Lothlorien, as had all the teachers, but truthfully, his was the most meaningful. She knew she had worked especially hard to earn it. She'd almost miss these quiet sessions in years to come. Well, there was no time for that now. She turned back to the tests, mind fixed firmly again on Potions. 


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

It was a perfectly bloody miserable late January day, to Draco Malfoy's mind. It wasn't all that cold, and the sun was shining. But he was utterly miserable. Sitting in the stands flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, laughing weakly at their threatening mutters towards the Gryffindors as his old self would have. 

How would he stand this act for another four months, when everything within him screamed at the very thought? It had been such a rude awakening a month ago--he still utterly loathed himself for his weakness in self-preservation. The girl haunted his nightmares regularly, so much that Snape had him taking Dreamless Sleep Potion on the sly after Zabini informed him that Draco was waking everybody up with his shrieks of terror awakening from the dreams. 

Pansy had tried to drag him up to the Astronomy Tower a week ago for a snogging session like they had done before, but he had barely prevented himself from dashing away and being sick at the thought of being in such intimate contact with _any_ girl. _Lovely,_ he thought tiredly, _if I can't bear the sight of anyone female, and since I'm not attracted to other males, I've got a long, lonely life ahead. No less than I deserve, though._

He turned his eyes back towards the Quidditch pitch, feeling a sharp pang of loss there as well. He hadn't been a wonderful Seeker; that he knew. In fact, he had avoided trying most times, because he hadn't earned the position or appreciated it. He knew his father had coerced Snape into appointing him as Seeker, and that Snape hadn't been happy about it. But he missed the simple, carefree things like Quidditch now, when nothing was clear. The Slytherin team had easily forgotten him already, cheering on Meridia Aquila to beat Gryffindor as they had last year. 

To distract himself, he calculated outcomes this year, almost wanting to laugh at how much a stupid House Cup meant to these--these _children_, when waiting for them right outside Hogwarts' gates were those who wouldn't give a damn whether they had been school champions or in last place. All that mattered to Voldemort was if you were sick and twisted enough to follow him. 

Still, thinking of the house points was better than thinking of the girl's screams. Flatly he realized that they could lose this match and still win the Quidditch Cup if Hufflepuff beat Gryffindor and they beat Hufflepuff. Gryffindor and Slytherin had both already beaten Ravenclaw. _Wonderful._

He was aware of a commotion on the field as one of Slytherin's Beaters, William Monk, had knocked into a Gryffindor Chaser, Hester Latterly. He remembered he had spurned Monk, the boy being the Muggle-born son of a Northumberland fisherman. Unusual to have Muggle-borns in Slytherin, but Monk had proven to be quite an ambitious and cunning young fellow. _Sorting Hat was right to put him with us._ Hadn't been enough to stop him sneering at the boy behind his back before, of course, as a Mudblood. Monk and Latterly were both third-years now, and Draco sighed again at the position he was put in. He couldn't make the amends he desperately wanted to now, realizing what an utter ass he had been. His disdain was so trademark now that to change would automatically set off alarm bells to his father and result in his being confronted by the senior Malfoy and forced to choose: life with Voldemort or death. He didn't know even now if he'd be strong enough to choose to die if faced with that, he realized in self-disgust. 

He muttered some vague assent to Pansy's sneer about Latterly, then was aware of a massive roar coming from the scarlet-clad ranks in the Gryffindor stands. Harry Potter was holding up his fist in triumph, looking pointedly towards the scouts there from the Cardiff Dragons. Draco grimaced and shook his head. _I could have maybe caught it if it was me out there…damn Potter. All smug and happy: spoiled always here at Hogwarts. Look at those scouts. Practically drooling. And here I am afraid for my life. Doesn't the stupid prat realize there's a war going on out there…that Voldemort means to kill him? Or is all he can see that damned Snitch?_

It didn't matter how short-sighted Harry Potter was. He was the school's darling, while he--he was living a lie. Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy stayed with him in order to be close to the son of a high-ranking Death Eater as a status symbol; not out of any genuine fondness. They used him as much as he had used them. 

Something within him welled in a sick, helpless rage. He only knew he had to get away from the stupid celebration of something so insignificant as Potter catching the Snitch. Perhaps a year ago he could have been outraged along with the rest at the loss, but now it was a mere grain of sand next to the quicksand pit threatening to swallow him. 

He stumbled out of the stands, heading back to the castle. He didn't fit any longer with all this. He had tasted the darkness, been part of it. Four more months of trying to act innocence he no longer possessed would drive him mad. Tying to deny what he had done to that girl when he really just felt like standing up in the Great Hall and shouting it for all to hear, to be denounced and punished as he so richly deserved…he couldn't stand it. Everything he was: all a lie. Well, perhaps he could make a damn statement about refusing to live the lie any longer.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Minerva was grinning smugly at him as they exited the stands as the students were almost all safely at the castle, bringing up the rear. "Looks like the Quidditch Cup is Gryffindor's this year." 

He gave her an irritated look. "If Hufflepuff beats you," he reminded smoothly, "and we beat Hufflepuff, it'll be ours." The final score had been 180-90. He at least had the quiet pride that their Chasers had beaten Gryffindor's. He knew Potter had caught the Snitch quickly as he could rather than risk the Snitch's points being beaten out by the Slytherin Chasers, and smiled in satisfaction at that. 

"Professor Snape, sir?" He was aware of Hermione Granger walking by his side, giving him a bit of a smile. "I think I may have finally figured the Solventus out. Could we work on it if you're not busy? I think I could have it ready in a week or two if I'm right!" she said in excitement. 

"Excellent!" he said, genuinely pleased. She had made excellent progress as well in her spying ability, which also relieved him. She was much more than he had thought; that was for certain. 

"Not all Gryffindors are dunderheads, hmm?" Minerva said teasingly, giving him a smile. 

"Just most," he said dryly, unable to resist. Minerva gave a rather mock noise of annoyance and walked ahead, leaving the two of them to chat. 

The only sound for a moment was the quiet crunch of snow beneath their shoes. She finally spoke. "Sir, I just wanted to say--" 

Just then, Icarus came diving towards them, looking as terrified as an owl could. _You have to stop him!_ he hooted frantically. 

"Draco?" He was automatically on alert. "What's he doing?" 

_He's in the Astronomy Tower,_ Icarus said. _Didn't even look at the letter from home I had just delivered. He came back from the match and headed there…_ Exhausted, he finally dropped into Hermione's arms, spent from the effort of flying from Malfoy Manor and then flying at breakneck speed to find him. 

He didn't even pause for thought, cursing the wards that prevented Apparating into the school. He raced for the broom shed where Madame Hooch stored the student's brooms, hastily throwing open the door and grabbing the first broom coming to hand. 

He mounted the broom and kicked off from the ground, turning towards Hogwarts, barely aware of Hermione running towards the school as well in the twilight gloom. Old memories came back to him of high-speed broomstick rides, but there was more at stake now than a mere Quidditch game. 

He approached the Astronomy Tower, relieved he seemed to have gotten a broom in decent shape and with fair speed. He saw Draco crouching on the windowsill, eyeing the ground below. Before he could cry out for the boy not to do it, he leaped. Frantically grabbing his wand from up his sleeve, he bellowed a Levitation Charm, holding Draco about ten feet from the ground. 

Carefully landing in the snow, he gently lowered Draco. "You damn fool!" he immediately shouted. "What in the name of God were you thinking?" 

"I can't stand it, sir," Draco choked out, not even looking up at him. "I can't act like I was before. I can't pretend that girl didn't exist, or that I had no part in anything. I can't even stand to look at myself in the _mirror_ any longer!" 

"Then," Snape replied almost harshly, "you do something to be _able_ to look at yourself in the mirror. And quite frankly, you haven't _earned_ the right to the coward's way out." 

Draco flinched at that. "I'm Slytherin, sir. Slytherin and weak," he murmured defeatedly. 

"You are Slytherin, and damn you, be proud of it," Snape said crisply. "We are not weak. You sound like a Hufflepuff weeping and whining over what you can't change. Now, you can't take back what you did to that girl," his voice softening a bit, "but you can try to make amends in other ways. I've been there, you forget. I considered ending it all myself, but decided I didn't deserve an easier end than those I harmed." 

He knew that the last thing Draco wanted was sympathy, feeling he was the one least deserving of it. So he took a hard, almost biting, tone with him, making him feel like it was his punishment to live with what he had done. _It's my penance, and too it shall be his._ "Promise me," he demanded. "You won't take that way out. You owe to make it up if it truly you regret it that much." 

Draco gave a heaving sigh. "I promise, sir," he said quietly, putting his hands in his pockets and trudging towards the castle, shoulders slumped. The one thing Snape knew he could trust about a Malfoy was their sworn word. The boy wouldn't kill himself, but Snape knew he'd not drop the idea. He began thinking himself of how to perhaps derail that. He wasn't about to tell the boy to become a bloody spy in recompense and give him purpose. Draco couldn't handle that--he was certain of that as anything before in his life. 

He saw Hermione standing a little aside, still clutching Icarus, undisguised pity on her face for Draco. He sighed quietly. She had much to learn in the ways of dealing with people, but he had to admire her ability to forget how Draco had been to her. Potter and Weasley wouldn't be half so generous, and he thought not for the first time that she was too good for those two. 

"Well," he said quietly. "Shall we work on your potion?" She nodded in relief, as he led the way into the dungeons, both a little uneasy over what had just happened. _Times are changing, and us with them_, he thought wearily. _It only remains to see if we have changed enough…_


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo

Snape furrowed his brow in concentration, black eyes intent upon hers. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I know you said something, but…" He shrugged. "I don't recall what it was." 

Hermione let out a cry of triumph at that. "It worked!" She grinned in delight. The potion could be used to leave just traces of a memory as well, in situations where having traces left would be useful. 

When the potion had been completed a month ago at the end of January, such was what Snape had asked her to do for Draco Malfoy. She had just confirmed that the memory of his words had been completely erased, and had been replaced, interestingly enough, by a memory of falcon-flight. 

"Bravo, Miss Granger," he had said, giving her a genuine smile. "The Ministry shall indeed be pleased to hear of this." He had then taken a deep breath and addressed her frankly and without pretension. "I would ask something of you, if you are willing. I believe that young Mister Malfoy could benefit from this potion." 

"You want to erase what he did?" she had protested. "But then he'll go back to being his old self…I thought you said you didn't mean to absolve him!" 

"Never an absolution," he had said, lips pressed tightly together for a moment in self-regret, "but…let me say it to you this way. Do you think it is possible to erase enough of the memory that he doesn't feel a need to prove the human inability to fly, but leave enough so that he still knows he's done," another grimace, "a terrible wrong?" 

"Erase the details, you mean, and leave the overall impression?" 

"Exactly. As is, I see him," Snape sighed, leaning against a worktable and crossing his arms over his chest, "breaking his word eventually to not end it all. Such things only grow with time, not fade…" 

She was astonished how little he bothered to hide such things from her any longer. In between days in the workroom and evenings on the wing, somehow, some of the barriers had been erased. It hardly seemed like they were teacher and student sometimes, and that was a little frightening. 

She understood what he was asking, and knew he didn't ask it lightly. Something within her was gratified to know that he honestly cared for the Slytherins that much and that he trusted her enough to be a part of this. Quite honestly, she was more than glad to do this--she could tell Draco was constantly teetering at the breaking point. He had spent more than his share of time in the hospital wing, and she knew Snape had spent more than one of their sessions here in the workroom brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion to replace stocks Draco was rapidly depleting. 

So she had set to work again as Snape sent the news of her triumph to the Ministry, urging her also to perhaps consider publishing an article upon the potion. "Take credit for your work, Miss Granger," he had said when she protested. "No Gryffindor modesty. You've earned it." 

Another month of hard work to perfect it. Practicing drawing out memories of objects or words from another person (Snape usually) into a Pensieve. That was necessary, since to use the potion the healer would need to extract the memory from the patient, but it was laborious indeed. Endless equations and testing to find out how to leave only a permanent wisp of the original memory behind. Impressions, but not details. 

It was based upon the Muggle concept of limiting reactants in chemistry, she found. When she added the anti-memory to the Solventus, she first removed part of it. That ensured that there was not quite enough to completely bind to and erase all of the original memory. The two would have had to be in equal proportions to completely cancel. The tricky bit was finding out the exact proportion of anti-memory to memory to receive the desired effect. The Forgetfulness Potion would fill in the hole left by the partial destruction of the memory, effectively binding the wisp of memory left to a small confine and leaving it no room to expand back to its full vividness. 

After a month, she finally had it. _Thank God. It was getting messy,_ she thought, blushing a little. More than once she had left Snape with a funny turn when she got the proportions wrong--either the memory was hardly touched, or he'd recall nothing whatsoever. She had to respect his determination to succeed in this as great as her own, willingly being her guinea pig. 

It appeared that omitting a carefully measured eighth of the anti-memory produced the desired effect. "You're certain it worked?" she asked, carefully using a Destruction Charm on the rest of the anti-memory. 

"It feels like it was twenty years ago or more," he replied, looking quite pleased, "rather than ten minutes. I know you said something, that I was listening closely and hoping that it would be successful, but I don't recall a word of what you said. I do remember I was surprised by it!" 

She had said rather facetiously, "Slytherin'll win the Quidditch Cup this year." Half the reason she had said that was for the amusement of checking the anti-memory and having herself say that of course, _Gryffindor_ was due to win. 

She chuckled softly. "I suppose we should test it again to make certain it wasn't a fluke and that my numbers are right," she said cautiously, initial elation tempered with the realization that one success didn't indicate perfection. It could have been random chance. 

"Very well," he replied. "To think I'm seeing the day where I'm actually letting a Gryffindor play around with my mind…good God. The Slytherins of '78 would have been horrified with me." He seemed caught between sarcasm and genuine amusement. There were times she could swear he was bantering with her without bothering to act dark and brooding. _Maybe it's because he knows I'm actually listening,_ she thought. _And that I've seen his worst and still insisted on staying the course._ He honestly respected her, she was certain. He hadn't gone so far as to be kind to her in Potions class, but she wasn't sure either of them would handle that well. And too, she had stopped trying to desperately prove herself in class by knowing everything. There were other means of proving her worth now, and that satisfied her quite well. 

She began carefully cleaning the equipment to run another trial. "Are you certain you want to do this today? I _have_ been working with your mind quite a bit lately. I don't want to overdo it and perhaps cause an accident." 

He raised an eyebrow, handing her a flask to clean and going to his cauldron next to hers to stir up the latest batch of Dreamless Sleep Potion again, tipping in another poppy blossom to correct the imbalance indicated by the pale blue coloration. "There are not many memories I would miss much," he stated quietly. "Another try, Miss Granger, and if it succeeds, I believe young Draco will be your first case this weekend." She nodded. _Even if I slip slightly,_ she realized, _Draco would be better off than he is now._ But she was instinctively methodical and meticulous. She would not make a mistake. 

She thought for a moment. Something suitably trivial, that wouldn't be embarrassing to leave in his mind if things went wrong. "Crookshanks seems to like you." 

He smiled a little. "He's an opinionated chap," he replied, sitting down on the stool by the worktable. She hid a grin. _So are you, sir._

Touching her wand to his temple, she concentrated on drawing out the memory concerning Crookshanks. It was exhausting work--her idea of the memory she wanted had to be as detailed as possible to get the right one, and that was a little difficult if she hadn't been there to experience it. Still, for one experienced with a Pensieve, it wasn't that difficult of an obstacle. She completed the rest of the potion easily, and he drank it. 

He confirmed that it had worked, looking puzzled when she asked him how Crookshanks felt about him. "How should I know?" he asked, obviously baffled. 

"It worked," she assured him, feeling a warm glow of elation. She had done it. _They_ had done it, much as he disclaimed his help. 

"Does Saturday evening work for…" She trailed off, tidying up again. 

He nodded absently. "I'll make certain that he is here," he assured her, turning back to his potion. 

She left quietly, saying only a "Good night". Tiredly she climbed to Gryffindor Tower, a month of hard work day and night taking a hard toll. She only hoped that Voldemort wouldn't call Snape tonight. He had been summoned only two days ago, so it was unlikely. _Still, it's all worth it,_ she thought, picking up her Herbology text with a suppressed yawn. 

Saturday came, and she got through the day rather nervously. She started worrying if the potion would have the desired effect upon memories with truly strong emotions that her simple memories of words said did not. _The proportions might be wrong--I might leave too much with emotion that deep,_ she thought frantically, eating her beef stew at dinner, barely aware of Professor Flitwick asking her whether her acceptance from Lothlorien had arrived or not. 

Sheepishly she smiled and said that it had not, but it was not due till next month anyhow. She ate quickly and took a peek over towards the Slytherin table. Draco sat there, flanked as usual by Crabbe and Goyle. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he looked paler than usual. He had excused it off to a bout of Gambrellian Influenza procured while on Christmas break, a disease that could take up to six months to run its course. Here at Hogwarts, only she, Snape, Draco, and most probably Dumbledore knew the true circumstances. It was an awkward thing sometimes to be in such privileged (or more perhaps burdened) company. 

After completing her History of Magic essay, she said a good-bye to Tosca and Crookshanks, chattering happily away in her room about the quality of mice available for hunting these days, and headed for the dungeons. 

"Sugar plum!" she said softly to the door of the workroom, suppressing as always the urge to giggle at the rather ridiculous password. She had heard Snape say it, nearly biting off the words in disgust. Unlocking the door, she went in and carefully began gathering the ingredients she'd need. Glancing at the large jar of Forgetfulness Potion, she was thankful for its long shelf life. The batch she had made the previous fall was as good as new, though she had perhaps only five doses left now due to copious tests over the months. 

She carefully measured out a portion of it, setting it to heating. Thankfully, he had left her the portions of sea cucumber gelatin, Chimaera venom, and Fetch feather powder that she'd need, rather than waste time retrieving them from his office. Going to the storeroom, she grasped the jars of Arctic seawater and cordgrass, carrying them over to the worktable. 

She set to work preparing the Solventus, idly moving the Pensieve aside for the moment. She was in the middle of precisely titrating the Chimaera venom with the Fetch feather powder buffer when she heard the door quietly open behind her. 

"What's she doing here?" she heard Draco ask, trying to sound angry but voice a little too quavery for it. "You said _nothing_ about Granger, sir." 

"She developed the potion," Snape said rather shortly, obviously having explained the principle of what they intended to do. "She is sworn to secrecy of this." 

"I suppose you told her everything," Draco said bitterly. "So Granger, what kind of monster do you think I am?" Beneath his mocking tone was a deep well of self-loathing. His blue eyes studied her dully. 

"I only know," she lied without compunction, "that you have a memory that needs removal." He seemed to relax a little at that, but the tension in his body still betrayed his nervousness. 

"This works?" he asked dubiously, sitting down as she gestured him to the stool 

"Do you think I'd let her experiment willy-nilly on you?" Snape replied. 

Draco grimaced. "Point taken. Well, Granger, do your worst." He settled his hands on his knees. She carefully recalled that night, trying to draw out the memory from his mind. 

It came reluctantly, obviously deep-rooted in his mind, flowing into the Pensieve like thick tar. Draco let out a low, almost animal whine of pain, hands fisted in his robes. _It's been occupying a good portion of his mind_, she realized, hands fumbling slightly. _It's not like those minor memories…_

She looked at Snape, who looked slightly concerned, but gestured for her to go on. _Anything has to be better than what he has now_, she told herself, steadying her hands with an effort. She noticed that the memory filled more of the Pensieve than she was used to. The memory was Inversed, checked, and the usual eighth taken out, she hoping that removing the memory hadn't left an enormous hole the potion would be unable to fill. It nearly broke her heart to see that the anti-memory was of him saving the girl. 

Routine took over from there, as she added the anti-memory to the Solventus, and then that to the Forgetfulness Potion. She handed him the cupful of effervescing potion, and he cautiously drank it, eyes still disbelieving. 

A minute later, Snape quietly asked him, "What do you remember about the Christmas holidays?" 

Draco blinked and furrowed his brow in concentration. "I came back to Hogwarts early." He paused for a moment. "And I know I did something…something wrong, but," he shook his head and grimaced, "I don't know what. It's all fuzzy." 

Snape gave her a relieved smile behind Draco's back. "How do you feel about the Death Eaters?" he asked casually. But Hermione clenched her hands into fists, biting her lip. This was the answer that would confirm success or not. If Draco wanted to avoid the Dark Mark like the plague, all was well. If it had gone wrong, he'd be back to his old, obnoxious self, and it had been a complete failure. 

"Depraved bastards," Draco said in something close to a snarl. He smiled humorlessly. "I hope it doesn't run in the blood." He looked thoughtful. "I suppose not. Whatever I did, it's got me completely off the idea of following in Father's footsteps." He shuddered. "May I go now?" he asked Snape, almost politely. 

"Yes, and let me know if any of the old symptoms persist," he replied. Draco gave a curt nod and headed out the door, still looking confused, but somehow relieved. 

She was aware that while she was scrubbing out the cauldron he lightly touched her on the shoulder and said a quiet, "Thank you." She heard the quiet swish of black robes, and the sound of footsteps towards his office. When she looked up, he was at his desk, bent over a stack of essays. She placed her hand on her shoulder where his had been, a little bemused as she finished. 

She smiled a little and left the workroom, feeling quite pleased with herself. A spy and creator of a valuable potion: she had absolutely no reason to doubt her usefulness now. Crookshanks and Tosca demanded to know how things had gone as she stepped into her room, and she launched into a retelling for their benefit, relaxing and allowing the pride in what she had done to flow. 


	23. Chapter TwentyThree

Draco presented the note to Snape with an extremely troubled look just before the Easter holidays. "He says he'll be here for me this evening," Draco said, voice flat and expressionless, but eyes obviously worried. 

Snape studied the letter delivered to Draco that morning. It was a note from Lucius Malfoy stating that Draco's mother was ill and wished her son home for the Easter holiday to see her. Draco was to be at Hogsmeade station that evening, awaiting his father's arrival. 

Snape sighed and looked up at Draco. "This does complicate things." He had not planned on the boy having to deal with being around his father or the Death Eaters before he broke off his ties with their kind after finishing Hogwarts. 

"I don't believe for an instant," Draco said, frowning, "that Mother is ill. He _had_ mentioned at Christmas letting me attend a meeting before I took the Mark--introducing me to the Dark Lord. That was the night before…well, before _that_." He gave the usual helpless half-shrug he resorted to when pondering the events of that night, indicating his lack of knowledge. 

Snape smiled humorlessly. "Your interview with Voldemort, Draco." 

"There's no way I can avoid it, is there?" Draco grimaced. 

Tosca sighed and said, _Dangerous game, Sev. I don't like it._ Snape nodded idly, to let her know he was listening and agreed. He didn't talk with her in front of young Malfoy, as the boy had no idea that he (or Hermione Granger for that matter) was an Animagus. That would tip his hand, and while he was reasonably sure of Draco's intents, it wasn't a secret he wanted to be confiding immediately. If necessary, he would divulge it. Else, it was none of Draco's business, and talking with Tosca would rather give him away. 

"Not really," he replied. "About all you can manage is to act loyal--there are only two months left," he said in an effort at consolation. "And he will not have you take the Mark before leaving Hogwarts." Voldemort had refused to allow him to do so, saying that he would not lose a valuable Death Eater to Albus Dumbledore's scrutiny. 

"I see." 

"If it's any help," he offered, "you are not supposed to…_participate_…until you are in the ranks. Your experience at Christmas will not be repeated, at least not with the Dark Lord present." Voldemort really didn't care what his followers did with those they captured, so long as they eventually ended up dead, but he detested such _distractions_ at his meetings. _Never mingle business with pleasure_, Snape thought wryly. "You will merely observe," Snape continued, recalling his first meeting. He came out of it with no idea of what the Death Eaters really did; if he had, would he have joined their ranks? He didn't know, but his concern now was for Draco rather than his own sordid past. 

"I had best be packing," Draco said with a sigh. "Father will be here in a few hours." He gave Snape a ghost of a smile. "Wish me luck, sir. If I'm not here come Monday, assume the worst," he said, almost matter-of-factly. 

"I hate this," he muttered, once Draco had closed the door after himself. 

_There's nothing you can do?_ Toca asked, gliding lazily onto his desk and regarding him with her large black eyes. _Tell Malfoy he's got to stay here to make up for abysmal grades and has had all leaving privileges revoked or the like?_

He shook his head. "No. Leaving privileges are not pertinent in the case of family emergency, as Lucius wrote is supposedly the case, and in any case, any such effort would more than set him upon alert. Draco's quite a prize for Voldemort, one that Lucius Malfoy will be careful not to lose." 

_Damn. I suppose you'll probably be summoned if it's a meeting this weekend. Take Hermione, I suppose, and keep an eye on him._

"Are you getting fond of him, Tosca?" He grinned. 

_As fond as I can be of a boy who turned into a ferret_, she chuckled. _Blasted prey-mammals, the lot of them. My sister Carmen insists they're wonderful partners in flushing out hares for you, but I think she's quite frankly fibbing._

He nodded idly. "He may summon me, or he may not." He shrugged. "In all likelihood it'll be tomorrow night, so even if I'm not called, perhaps I should go: see what I can glean in the way of information, and to keep an eye on the boy." 

He hoped Draco still possessed a Slytherin's cunning and deviousness to get him through this. It hadn't been easy, since all of Hogwarts considered him the foremost Death Eater-to-be and treated him accordingly. When his turning sides was known, he likely would not be widely accepted, even by those he should have been able to call allies. _Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin: at least to them. They'll think he'll switch sides at the first opportunity_, he thought tiredly. It would be the first test of many for the boy. He only hoped the burden wasn't too heavy. 

Tosca suddenly groaned, studying the Potions essay he had been grading when Draco had burst into his office. _Who is this? "Nundu breath is the result of not using mouthwash"? They get worse every year…I swear, I could do better in your class than most of these lackwits._ He chuckled slightly at that image, and rose to his feet, intending to go find Hermione Granger and let her know that there was work to be done this weekend.   


~~~~~~~~~~

It was a calm and moonless night that Saturday, as Hermione and Snape watched the gathering in the dungeons. She was used to the slight distortion of sounds by now through the charmed window. 

Draco was in there with them, trying to look calm and composed, but obviously a little unnerved from the impressions remaining of the memory of what he had done in these dungeons. Still, though looking a trifle paler than usual, he was holding up well. 

"My son, my Lord," Lucius said, pride obvious in his voice, as he led Draco forward. 

"Young Draco," Voldemort said, glowing red eyes fixed upon Draco standing before him. "You would follow me?" 

"My Lord," Draco said smoothly, his voice sounding like a silky younger version of his father's, "I would follow what I know to be right." 

Snape made a faint grunt at that. _Don't equivocate, Malfoy,_ he muttered. _You're Slytherin. Lie and have done with it!_

Draco must have realized that, because he continued with nary a hitch, "And I know that it is only right that magic should be reserved for those who are pure and untainted by Muggle filth." Hermione tried not to shudder at the old propaganda coming once more from Draco's mouth--she had grown used to the idea of him as wiser and determined to fight for the right side, not the whinging brat he had been before. But it had to be done. 

"Really," Voldemort said coolly. 

"My Lord," Lucius protested, seeming to see his high position slip through his fingers if his son was not trusted, "he has _always_ sought to humiliate the Mudbloods…" 

"There is a great deal of difference," Voldemort said, turning that fiery gaze upon Lucius, Hermione not surprised to see Lucius pale a little and take a half-step back, "between humiliating Mudbloods and exterminating them. I must wonder if your son has the spine to follow my orders, to do what must be done to cleanse this world of the filth that has tainted it." 

Draco stepped forward and bowed his head slightly at the monstrous figure, half-snake, half-man. "I will do whatever is necessary, my Lord. There will be deaths in this struggle, I know. Those who are against me and those I follow must die." 

Again, he was playing too close to the razor's edge, obviously a little squeamish about proclaiming himself to Voldemort openly, even falsely. Voldemort sensed it, as a shark sensed blood from wounded prey and pressed further. "Would you die for me, young Malfoy? Would you give up your life in my service?" 

Draco looked up and smiled at Voldemort, hints of the old arrogance back in his countenance. "Yes," he said calmly, though Hermione noticed his hands trembling slightly, as though saying that eternally damned him. 

"Very good." That test initially passed, Voldemort further questioned Draco with the boy answering calmly from the way he used to be, with hardly any compunction as the interview went on. 

_Tell him what he wants to hear,_ Hermione muttered softly. _We won't think less of you for it._

She was aware of a sound of surprise from Snape. _I'm surprised to hear that from a Gryffindor._

_Are you surprised to hear it from me, not just "a Gryffindor"?_ she retorted, thinking she must have been mistaken in thinking he had seen beyond her house. 

_No, not from you,_ he admitted plainly, turning his eyes back towards the window, shifting slightly on the branch. She was quite comfortable seeing him in falcon form by now. 

"Bring him to me once he is free from Dumbledore and he shall enter my service," Voldemort finally declared imperiously. Lucius gave a slight bow of acknowledgement at that, lips curving into a smile beneath his half-mask. 

"Ah," Voldemort said lightly. "One more thing, Draco." 

Draco turned back, the very picture of servile humility. "My Lord?" 

"Tell me, how is," Voldemort smirked, "Severus Snape these days? Pitt tells me," he nodded towards a stocky young Death Eater, "that when he left Hogwarts a year ago Severus was…" he waved a hand idly, "…not his usual self?" 

Draco shrugged. "Snarky and sarcastic as usual, my Lord. He had a funny turn for a few weeks last year, but he's mostly the same." He smiled widely. "I could kill him for you!" he offered in a convincing display of youthful overabundance of eagerness to please. "Traitors can't be tolerated." 

She knew it was all an act to enhance Draco's masquerade as an exceptionally eager Death Eater candidate, but she couldn't help looking at Snape and seeing him sitting still as death. The Death Eaters actually chuckled at Draco's seemingly innocent adoration of Voldemort. Voldemort smiled indulgently. "No, there will be other opportunities for you to prove yourself. The pleasure of capturing Snape I believe I shall give to Walden and Desdemona now that they are freed from Azkaban, since he," now the voice changed to a malevolent hiss, "_betrayed_ them into the hands of the Aurors. I shall be the one to kill him, of course. That is the law." 

"Yes, my Lord," Draco said, the very picture of reluctance and petulance. 

_You set the Lestranges up?_ Hermione asked softly, impressed. She knew they had escaped Azkaban shortly after Christmas with the assistance of the Death Eaters. 

_Yes. I betrayed them,_ Snape said flatly. 

With that, the victims to come were named: this time Killian Ruiadh, a journalist for the _Daily Prophet_ who had been publishing editorials calling for a rally against Voldemort, was foremost. 

_Suicidal fool,_ Snape muttered darkly, as Voldemort Disapparated, along with a few of the Death Eaters. _Did he think they'd ignore him publishing such things?_

With that, the masks were removed and hoods thrown back, the Death Eaters looking cheerfully at home. _Ah,_ Snape said flatly. _It's to be a weekend at Lucius'. I have such fond memories._

_Beg your pardon?_

_He'd often invite,_ Snape explained patiently, _some of us amongst the Dark Lord's higher ranks to stay at the manor for a few days and "amuse" ourselves. He does like to curry favor amongst the ranks; keeps him in power just below Voldemort. Well, below Pettigrew now as well,_ he amended. 

_You don't mean…_

_Oh, fine vintages from the Malfoy cellars, banquets in the dining room, and probably he's got some Muggles or the like for the "amusement" later,_ he replied, shaking his head. _Maybe an Auror, even, though I've heard of none captured lately. Don't get ideas, Hermione. We can do nothing. I could do nothing even when I was there in the thick of it, besides not fall to doing such things myself._ A world of regret was in his tone. 

_I know,_ she acknowledged. _But it hurts no less._ She turned back to see Draco mingling freely with the Death Eaters, helpfully passing around some of the Ogden's Old Firewhiskey that the house elf had brought. Leaning over shoulders to listen to conversations, and looking in general bright-eyed and cheerful about the whole business. 

_Quite the consummate actor,_ she observed. _Hurrah for devious Slytherins,_ she added jokingly. 

_My my,_ he said mildly, _you sound almost fond of us. Come, now. There's nothing else we can do here._ He took off from the branch, she following close behind, saying a quick prayer that Draco would make it through the weekend intact and still sane.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Sunday evening found Draco bursting again into Snape's office, but while on Friday afternoon he had seemed in despair, now he appeared almost jubilant. Ignoring that Hermione was heading out the door since Snape was showing her that her article had indeed been published, he grinned widely and reached in his robes. "I have something for you!" he practically crowed. 

"Yes?" Snape's eyebrows rose. Rarely had he ever seen Draco Malfoy looking so utterly triumphant. Actually, he never had. The boy was all cool composure, normally. 

"Some of them stayed the weekend after the meeting," Draco said quickly. "I knew they sometimes did, and Father told me that he wanted me to mingle with them this weekend; get to know my fellows." He smirked. "I got to know them all right, well enough to use these!" 

Carefully he handed over a series of leather pouches to Snape. Puzzled, he looked at the first one, seeing it neatly labeled in ink, "Desdemona Lestrange". The next, "Peter Pettigrew." 

"What is this?" 

"Well, open it and see!" He opened the one labeled for Lestrange and was startled to see it nearly full of midnight-black hair. 

"Lovely how firewhiskey puts you in a stupor," Draco smirked. "So much of a stupor you might not even notice a Severing Charm on part of your hair, and a Growing Charm to repair the damage." 

Snape looked up at him, startled at the sheer nerve it displayed. "They never suspected a thing," Draco said confidently. "They think I'm just an eager little junior Death Eater to be chuckled over. That should keep you in Polyjuice Potion when you need it, don't you think?" 

He looked through the names represented. Voldemort's highest ranking Death Eaters: the Lestranges, Avery, Pettigrew, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy. He smiled slowly. Draco had indeed been busy that weekend. For all he had decried himself as a coward, this was quite audacious. There was no innocuous explanation if he had been caught at work--even the least wizard knew hairs were primarily used in Polyjuice Potion. This was quite a good supply, indeed. "It should indeed. Thank you." He smiled as Draco left. _Cunning certainly is valuable,_ he thought with a faint air of pride, carefully hiding the hairs. He would give them to Dumbledore later, of course boasting it had been one of _his_ Slytherins that had procured them. Such a feat earned some bragging rights, indeed. 


	24. Chapter TwentyFour

After seven years, it had come time for the parting of the ways. At points nearly blinking back tears, Hermione finished packing her things into her trunk. The results for the NEWTs had come in yesterday, and today was the Leaving Feast. Her seven years at Hogwarts were done. 

Everybody was finally learning what future plans were for each other. She was off to Lothlorien: her acceptance had come last month. The Cardiff Dragons had taken Harry to play professional Quidditch, naturally. Ron had opted to become an Auror and study at the exclusive Auror's Academy in London, having pulled up his marks significantly this year once he realized his goal. At least he wasn't complaining about being the worthless youngest son any longer--none of the Weasleys had been accepted to Baker Street before. 

The London Auror's Academy was headquartered at 221B Baker Street, home of the famous Auror and Potions Master, Sherlock Holmes, still sarcastic and brilliant nearly 150 years of age. Dumbledore had been his classmate at Hogwarts. Holmes had held the position of Potions Master at Hogwarts following his quite early retirement from the Muggle world, reported there as seclusion to Sussex to study bees. He had been there for many years, barring the occasional year where he had been on lecture tour across Europe and a substitute had been procured. 

Obviously Snape's fourth year had been one of those; she recalling the picture of the substitute laughing over Sirius Black's prank on Snape. _Well, it's no wonder where he gets the sarcasm. Carrying on a fine tradition of Potions Masters there._ The reins had been handed to Snape in 1980, and Holmes had begun Baker Street, as the London Auror's Academy was colloquially called. 

Hermione had listened quite closely to lessons concerning Holmes in the History of Magic, particularly his defeat of the Dark wizard, Moriarty, and retiring for three years afterwards from Muggle life in hiding from Moriarty's thugs. She had read Conan Doyle's works upon the Muggle life of Holmes eagerly as a young girl, and envied Snape the chance to have been taught by him. Holmes was also a wonderful inspiration for what a Muggle-born could achieve in the wizarding world. 

Had she not been opting to study at Lothlorien, she'd have certainly loved to study under Holmes at Baker Street. It was a fascinating building, looking no more than an ordinary set of rooms from the exterior, but charmed to hold an entire school training probably thirty to fifty Aurors at any given time, and housing about ten live-in staff as well. Mrs. Hudson, the Academy cook, was said to be superb, and Dr. Watson, Holmes' slightly bumbling friend and the Academy's Mediwizard, was said to be a great ear for listening after the acerbic lash of one of Holmes' lessons. 

She envied Ron not a little, to be honest. Well, perhaps also she could study at Baker Street for the year of Auror's training after her two years at Lothlorien. Studying at an Auror's Academy would be good, since it taught the practical side of magic, and that would be sorely needed in days to come. More than a few university students were going the Auror route these days since Voldemort's return. The side of the Light would need all the skilled fighters it could get. The Auror schools in London, Llandudno, Belfast, and Strathclyde were working furiously to turn out as many well-trained Aurors as possible. 

Draco Malfoy was staying at Hogwarts, however. Snape had informed when she had inquired that he would be apprenticed to Hagrid for the summer. He would then take over the teaching of Care of Magical Creatures the next fall, as Hagrid was concentrating ever more these days upon making peace with the giants and bringing them to the side of the Light, with the help of Olympe Maxime, and his newly found mother, Friedwulfa. Thus he was apparently handing the task of teaching over to Draco and keeping only his job as Keeper of Grounds and Keys, which left him more open to time for being an emissary to the giants. 

"Care of Magical Creatures?" she asked now, coming to say her farewells to him in private before the Leaving Feast. "That doesn't sound like him…" Draco had really never shown fondness for the class that she could recall. 

"The Headmaster feels it will be good for him," Snape said with a somewhat amused smile. Trust Dumbledore to put Draco in close contact with a man he had tried to have arrested, defamed, or removed not a few times, and who could break him in two with hardly any effort. It _would_ be good for Draco to make his peace with Hagrid, though. 

"I suppose so," she replied, smiling a little. "Well, sir." She cleared her throat. 

"Please, Miss Granger, no tears for the parting," he said in a light tone. "You should be glad to finally be free of me." 

She smiled, shaking her head. "I wanted to thank you for everything this past year. The potion, the Animagism…" 

"You did those yourself," he said briskly. 

"Still, thank you for your assistance, no matter how much you deny it. After all, you tell me to take credit: why shouldn't you?" 

"For the potion, because my name is not one you would wish to be tied with. For the Animagism, because that is something I most _definitely_ do not want to be credited with." He shrugged and gave a slight self-deprecating smile. "Still, Miss Granger, you have made it quite an…interesting year." 

She put out a hand, and after a look of surprise, he grasped it in his own. She smiled at him and said softly, "Take care, sir. I don't imagine Tosca will relish having to go back out with you evenings, but…" 

He laughed quietly. "Well, she's all right with it. She'll miss bickering with Crookshanks, though." 

She turned to leave, not sure of anything else to say, and headed for the Great Hall. Hufflepuff had indeed beaten Gryffindor this year at Quidditch, Slytherin in turn beating Hufflepuff and securing the Quidditch Cup again. The House Cup was easily in Slytherin's hands after that. So it was to be a year of the Great Hall decorated in silver and green, a fact that had Harry clenching his fists and snarling constantly and Ron unhappy, but one that didn't bother her as much as it would have in years past. 

The Slytherin table looked actually quite ecstatic this year, since their banners hadn't graced the Leaving Feast since her first year, and that falsely. She wondered idly why Dumbledore had chosen to do it in that manner: it had been somewhat low to make Slytherin think they had won and then snatch the title from them. She looked over at Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table, and their eyes met for a moment. He gave her a small smile in thanks, then turned and said something reply to Goyle pounding him on the back. 

Dumbledore made the standard end-of-year announcements, wishing all the newly-licensed witches and wizards going into the world the best of luck. She looked down at the other end of the staff table to see Snape smiling slightly as Dumbledore awarded Slytherin the House Cup, and heard Slytherin roaring in approval. Much of the Great Hall sat silent at the celebration, though. _There's always a line between them and us,_ she thought sadly. _Even now, when there needs to not be one…_

The students slowly filed out of the Great Hall, and she noticed Draco staying behind. McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick handed Snape what looked like some Galleons. _They make bets on the outcome of the House Cup?_ she thought, giggling slightly. 

"Pool's yours this year, Severus," Flitwick said cheerfully. 

"Fifteen years without the Cup," Sprout sighed, shaking her head. "Always next year." 

"Blast," McGonagall muttered quietly. "We were this close to having it." 

She turned to leave as Draco approached the staff, shoulders squared, obviously ready to reveal his true colors to the rest of the Hogwarts teachers. Only Snape and Dumbledore had known until now. But the rest would have to know and accept Draco if he was to work with them in years to come. She wished him luck and slipped out silently, ready to go to the platform at Hogsmeade.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Tosca and Crookshanks sat together in Hermione's room during the Leaving Feast, sighing in discontent. _Who knew humans were so complex?_ Crookshanks meowed, idly batting at a catnip mouse. _I thought that if we just showed them they were awfully similar that'd do it._

_Ugh. I'd have thought after thirty-seven years he'd be eager to have somebody who doesn't see him as just a greasy git! Bloody human romance,_ Tosca griped. 

_Oh, don't worry,_ Crookshanks said smugly. _She'll be back, you know. She's tied too close to this place--and to him._

_Maybe before I get old and all my feathers fall out,_ Tosca replied tartly. _Well, we can hope._

_It's been good to work with you, Tosca._

_What? A cat, admitting I'm not just a glorified pigeon? You shock me, Crookshanks. Well, it's been pleasant as well. Work's not done yet though._

Just then, Hermione came through the door and saw Crookshanks and Tosca sitting on the floor. "Ready to go, Crooky?" 

_Yes._

"Take care of him, won't you, Tosca?" Hermione asked softly. 

_You can count on me._ The white falcon watched as Hermione Levitated her trunk to follow behind her, Crookshanks at her heels, as she walked out the door and closed it behind her. 

_Good luck, little passager,_ she said softly, hopping onto the windowsill and watching her make her way towards Hogsmeade Station. _You'll come back to the nest soon enough, I'd wager, all grown up._

It would be a busy night. Severus would undoubtedly be called, as young Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy were due to for induction into the Death Eaters tonight. She couldn't wait to see the look on Lucius Malfoy's face when his little nestling's note explaining his turn away arrived, and Malfoy fumbling to explain himself to Voldemort. She watched until Hermione disappeared from view, then leapt from the window and flew towards the dungeons, ready for whatever might come. 

**End Book 1**


	25. Author's Notes and Disclaimers

**The Usual Disclaimers:** Ms. Joanne Kathleen Rowling owns the Harry Potter Universe and all things contained within. However, if she hates Severus all that much, I'll happily adopt him (grins). 

William Monk and Hester Latterly are the property of Ms. Anne Perry, writer of Victorian mysteries. William makes such a wonderful Slytherin and Hester such a splendid Gryffindor I couldn't resist putting them in a cameo. The series concerning these two individuals, as well as many more of a varied and colorful cast, begins with "The Face of a Stranger", and is wonderful and well worth the read. 

The late operatic composer Puccini owns the character of Floria Tosca, from whom I borrowed the name for Snape's Arctic gyrfalcon, Tosca. 

The late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's property includes the characters of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Moriarty. Ever the great chemist and near-wizard, I couldn't resist making Holmes the Hogwarts Potions Master, which does fit wonderfully with his early retirement supposedly to Sussex. 

No Severuses, Hermiones, or Dracos were hurt in the writing of this fic. 

**Author's Notes:** I wish first and foremost to thank my friend and beta, Karen, who goes by the name "Potions Student" on ff.net. For infinite patience with my constant flooding of her mailbox with writing, many crazy late night conversations, and encouragement to keep up with this fic, I am profoundly grateful. _Diolch yn fawr, fy nghares._

To those who have reviewed this fic and made a bit of a following, it seems (a thing I hardly yet believe!), I also extend my gratitude. It's been a great time, and I look forward to your comments on the forthcoming book 2. 

My thanks also go out to the gals at the Snapefic Liberation Front at Yahoo! Groups for their wise critique and ever-present encouragement, plus insane discussions by the bucket load. Looking forward to more of it, ladies! 

"Passager" as Tosca uses it is a falconer's term used to describe a hunting raptor (eagle, hawk, owl, falcon) that is in the somewhat awkward stage between that of an "eyass" or nestling, and a "haggard" or adult. In effect, a teenager. 

For the idea of Tosca, I profoundly thank Pat, my opera-loving friend. 

Book 2, entitled "As the Falcon Hath Her Bells: On the Wing" will be arriving presently. Have patience, and I hope you'll find the wait worth it! 

The title of "As the Falcon Hath Her Bells" comes from the Bard himself:   


_As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb,   
and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires._   
"As You Like It", Act III, Scene iii

This fic was begun in response to a Valentine's Day challenge, and continued at request. The challenge became Chapter One. 


End file.
